That night, when she was nineteen, she lay her head upon her mothers lap in disbelief. She asked her mother, when? ‘When will it be my turn? Why do they leave? How do we know they are the one?’
Her mother stroked her hair, dried her wet face and said ‘there is a lid for every pot’. Through her choking tears she cried ‘then I must be a frying pan!’ Her mother replied with a warm smile ‘a frying pan can be covered too.’
Love introduced her to a few pots, with many she was burnt. Some brought strange obnoxious fumes into her life, others she allowed boil away her sense of self and peace.
With another she created one of her best dishes, but alas they did not fit. That love was highly flammable and lacked nutrition.
So she cooked alone for a peaceful mind, some of her best dishes she created in that time. She was her own lid, her own pot, no longer did she need to be covered. She was content.
Then without notice or desire her world suddenly changed.
Someone walked right into her kitchen, armed with new flavours. She quickly realised that her mother was right that night.
Now they cook together, try new things, they do not cry over spilt milk. Breaking bread together, they value all their ingredients.
She feels covered, life finally tastes good.
An Peann
