It All Started While I Was Doing the Dishes

I was doing the dishes this morning from a particularly sticky meal from last night. Yes, I waited until this morning to get my dishes done. I was scrubbing my very well used pans, scraping last night's honey glazed roasted chicken out of them when something occurred to me.
A couple of days ago I was on the phone talking to a dear friend I have recently reconnected with. She asked me about book number two and the title. We spoke for a few more minutes and then she asked me something no one else has asked me. "How do you come with the stories that make it into the book?" I thought for a minute and said this, much to my own surprise, "I think of all the times I have been influenced or changed by someone and the effect of that change. I have been fairly lucky when I think back on things."
There it was, the reason for the book, the future books and all the stories I tell. To be perfectly honest, I have never thought to ask myself that question. I had written and told stories since I was able to talk. I was that kid that, once I started talking, no one could shut me up. Believe me when I tell you, many have tried, and no one has succeeded to date. Life has always been a giant jigsaw puzzle to me. I felt compelled to take individual pieces, gazing thoughtfully at each one, trying to figure out what my big picture was going to be.
O.K., now back to the dishes. As I was scrubbing, I noticed how incredibly black, dinged and heavily used my pans are. No amount of scrubbing was going to get all the stains, dents and scratches to go away. I stress cook, by which I take all of my anxiety and throw it directly into a pot, or on a pan in order to concoct something we as a family can devour, forever making all my problems disappear. Alright, it isn't that easy, but the action of cooking soothes my savage breast. It is a win/win situation in my household. Rather than take all my frustration out on the kids, Mike or the dogs, I cook like a maniac, immersing myself in something completely unrelated to whatever problem I am dealing with. I relieve my stress, they don't get chased around being sliced and diced with my forked tongue, and everybody has good food to eat.
Years ago when I was first learning to cook, I thought I was supposed to make sure the pans I used looked brand new, as if I had never cooked anything in them before. I used every kind of scouring powder, dish soap, steel wool and scrubbing sponge I could find. I used hard bristle brushes, ice picks and wash cloths, as I stood over the sink scrubbing, scraping and shining my pans back to their original color and shape. One day I had had a friend over for a meal. She offered to help with the dishes. I began my ritual sweating, scrubbing and swearing as I tried desperately to get any reminder of the previous meal off my pans.
"Kellie, honey, you are working too hard at this. You are not supposed to scrape the discoloring off the pans."
"I'm not?" I looked at her as if she were completely mad.
"No, you need the pans to retain some of their use so they get seasoned. It will help the food from sticking later on. It takes some women years to season their pans the way they want."
"What? Are you serious? I have been washing off what others practice for years to get? Noooooo, that can't be! Why would they want dirty dishes?"
"Look, the discoloration, is supposed to be there so your food won't stick. Wash off the big mess, yes, but don't polish it back to it's original shape. You use your pans, so it's perfectly acceptable for them to look used."
After that moment I never scrubbed my pots and pans back to their original shine again. I thought of all the wasted hours I had spent scrubbing and toiling over pans, that others would have coveted for their darkened seasoned state. My pots and pans look like they have been from a war zone. Twenty-five years of use has left all the dings, dents and blackened areas they can hold. And for the record, she was right; all of my pans work better now than they did when they were new. My food doesn't stick, things taste better and I spend a lot less time in the kitchen hating the cookware.
Here comes the big epiphany, I am like my pans. I have dents, dings and usage marked all over me. There are scars from softball games, broken relationships and child birth scribbled all over this body and heart of mine. Past mistakes, missteps and failures have softened my edges, making me less judgmental of others when they too fall. I have dark spots from days in the sun, as I ran around soaking in all the joy from the day. I have pale spots marking the times I went into hiding, protecting me and my kids from hurt. Yes, Virginia, you and your pots are supposed to look used. Your face is supposed to bare wrinkles, your hair is supposed to gray, your body is supposed to sag. All the kings horses and all the kings men do not have enough botox to remove all the life you have lived. You are supposed to have lived enough, loved enough to become well seasoned.
With the dishes done, the kitchen cleaned up and the blog now written, I have but one choice, to spend the remainder of my day adding new dents to my very spicy life.