The kitchen is in absolute chaos. All the countertops are cluttered with the contents of the upper cabinets and there are stacks of moving boxes leaning against the lower cabinets. The big kitchen step stool stands in the middle of the room, a pair of scissors and a roll of packing tape on the top step. I move those to a bare space on a countertop, and drag the step stool over to the GE electric cooktop. I've never liked that cooktop. I guess it's great, as electric cooktops go, but I always wanted gas, so much so that a couple of light years ago I paid a plumber an enormous sum of money to run a separate gas line to the kitchen, where it's stubbed out under the counter, ready to be connected to a new, gas cooktop. But although I made many terrific changes and upgrades to this house, that's one of many projects that I never completed, because I ran out of time and money.
I climb up on the step stool and open the cupboard high above the cooktop. Because it's so hard to reach these high shelves, I always used them to store things that I didn't use often. I open the doors and look at what's there. On the top shelf, the surprisingly expensive stainless steel honey baked spiral ham rack. Stashed in a corner, a Williams-Sonoma Halloween pumpkin carving kit, never used. One brushed stainless whistling teapot, purchased during a time I worried about forgetting a silent teapot and starting a fire. Half a dozen packages of 4th of July sparklers that must be 15 years old and doubtful they have any sparkle left, but one never knows. On the bottom shelf, two beautiful enameled cast iron Martha Stewart pots. On the left, a burgundy colored oval 8 quart pot that I always used to prepare beef bourguignon at Christmas, and on the right, a rich orange, sort of butternut squash colored round 3 quart pot that I used more often, to make fondue or to heat Trader Joe's risotto with asparagus. Although they're affordable knock offs of the prohibitively expensive LeCreuset, both pots have served me so well that I've given a number of them to others as gifts. They're extremely heavy, so I carefully lift them down, one at a time. I place them on the floor, and gingerly lower myself to the floor beside them, so I can begin packing each of them for the move. I've already assembled a single small heavy box (that's an official category) for the 8 quart pot. I've used reinforced tape on all the bottom seams, and I've wadded up half a dozen big sheets of packing paper to form a sort of scrunchy bed beneath a thick layer of biodegradable packing peanuts. All I need to do is wrap the pot and lid in bubble wrap which I'll tape tightly before placing it in the box, where it will remain by itself, because it's so heavy, but as I sit on the floor thinking of how to best cut the bubble wrap to do that, it comes to me that I don't need to pack it after all. Because as I sit there I realize that at 67, with family scattered across the country, it's highly unlikely I'll use that pot to prepare that amount of beef bourguignon ever again. I could give it to one of the kids, but Alex is the only one likely to carry on the tradition of cooking beef bourguignon for Christmas, and she lives halfway across the country, and shipping her this heavy pot, which she might not even use, would cost more than buying a new one. So I rise slowly off the floor, my old knees sounding like a box of breakfast cereal. I bend over and pick up the pot and lug it to the wet bar, where I'm placing items for the estate sale. Ch-ch-ch-changes...
I climb up on the step stool and open the cupboard high above the cooktop. Because it's so hard to reach these high shelves, I always used them to store things that I didn't use often. I open the doors and look at what's there. On the top shelf, the surprisingly expensive stainless steel honey baked spiral ham rack. Stashed in a corner, a Williams-Sonoma Halloween pumpkin carving kit, never used. One brushed stainless whistling teapot, purchased during a time I worried about forgetting a silent teapot and starting a fire. Half a dozen packages of 4th of July sparklers that must be 15 years old and doubtful they have any sparkle left, but one never knows. On the bottom shelf, two beautiful enameled cast iron Martha Stewart pots. On the left, a burgundy colored oval 8 quart pot that I always used to prepare beef bourguignon at Christmas, and on the right, a rich orange, sort of butternut squash colored round 3 quart pot that I used more often, to make fondue or to heat Trader Joe's risotto with asparagus. Although they're affordable knock offs of the prohibitively expensive LeCreuset, both pots have served me so well that I've given a number of them to others as gifts. They're extremely heavy, so I carefully lift them down, one at a time. I place them on the floor, and gingerly lower myself to the floor beside them, so I can begin packing each of them for the move. I've already assembled a single small heavy box (that's an official category) for the 8 quart pot. I've used reinforced tape on all the bottom seams, and I've wadded up half a dozen big sheets of packing paper to form a sort of scrunchy bed beneath a thick layer of biodegradable packing peanuts. All I need to do is wrap the pot and lid in bubble wrap which I'll tape tightly before placing it in the box, where it will remain by itself, because it's so heavy, but as I sit on the floor thinking of how to best cut the bubble wrap to do that, it comes to me that I don't need to pack it after all. Because as I sit there I realize that at 67, with family scattered across the country, it's highly unlikely I'll use that pot to prepare that amount of beef bourguignon ever again. I could give it to one of the kids, but Alex is the only one likely to carry on the tradition of cooking beef bourguignon for Christmas, and she lives halfway across the country, and shipping her this heavy pot, which she might not even use, would cost more than buying a new one. So I rise slowly off the floor, my old knees sounding like a box of breakfast cereal. I bend over and pick up the pot and lug it to the wet bar, where I'm placing items for the estate sale. Ch-ch-ch-changes...
