Bridget stood at the sink looking at the blackened pot. It had been six days of soaking, rinsing and soaking again to try and restore its shine, or at least make it usable again. It was old, but strong, well made and in wonderful condition. Bridget and that pot had been through many years, dinners, parties and quiet mornings together. As far as pots went, it had been her favorite. It still was. The bottom was burned solid black with the exception of the rice-size bits of sliver shining
through where her intended dinner had latched onto the metal and protected it, but still Bridget wanted to save her pot.
The evening had started off fairly simply. This wasn’t her first pot of rice after all. Bridget had measured the water and slowly brought it to a boil, then poured the rice in, sprinkled it with salt, reduced the flame on the stove, set the timer on twenty and stepped away to allow the rice time to cook. That’s when she saw the note. She opened it and read while the rice continued to simmer. Bridget read the note and then she read it again. She wanted to make sure she understood everything that it said, and everything that it didn’t.
Bridget wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the smell hit her, but it was much more than twenty minutes. The house was quiet, but she hadn’t heard the timer go off. She went to the kitchen to find the blackened pot smoking and the crusted, burnt rice still smoldering. She turned off the flame and set the pot to cool, and with the intensity of the heat coming from the metal she burned the cooling rack in the process. Bridget removed the lid and let the heat and overpowering smell surround her. She opened a window to redirect the smoke, concerned that the fire alarm would go off. And then Bridget just stood there in the kitchen, her senses surrounded by the aftermath of hot metal and burnt rice.
Bridget let the pot cool then filled it with water and soap. She wanted to save it somehow…
The evening had started off fairly simply. This wasn’t her first pot of rice after all. Bridget had measured the water and slowly brought it to a boil, then poured the rice in, sprinkled it with salt, reduced the flame on the stove, set the timer on twenty and stepped away to allow the rice time to cook. That’s when she saw the note. She opened it and read while the rice continued to simmer. Bridget read the note and then she read it again. She wanted to make sure she understood everything that it said, and everything that it didn’t.
Bridget wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the smell hit her, but it was much more than twenty minutes. The house was quiet, but she hadn’t heard the timer go off. She went to the kitchen to find the blackened pot smoking and the crusted, burnt rice still smoldering. She turned off the flame and set the pot to cool, and with the intensity of the heat coming from the metal she burned the cooling rack in the process. Bridget removed the lid and let the heat and overpowering smell surround her. She opened a window to redirect the smoke, concerned that the fire alarm would go off. And then Bridget just stood there in the kitchen, her senses surrounded by the aftermath of hot metal and burnt rice.
Bridget let the pot cool then filled it with water and soap. She wanted to save it somehow…
After six days of soaking Bridget again stood in her kitchen looking at the pot. There was nothing more she could do. It had been destroyed. She would have to throw it away and get another one. She was angry, or annoyed, or frustrated with herself; she couldn’t quite find the right word to describe how she felt. She’d taken care of that pot and she wanted it be in the same condition as it was before that evening had begun. Eventually she would replace it. She knew that. But rather than throw it into the trash Bridget filled the pot with water and soap, and set it back on the counter to soak.
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