“There’s a lid for every pot.”
You hear this a lot when you’re single and actively not dating. It is usually said in a sing-song-y way meant to deliver a ray of hope in what is assumed to be your dreary, drab single existence.
I have long since given up on trying to convince people it is possible to be single and happy, so I typically respond with a tight smile and a “so they say.”
But it was this very adage that had me guffawing when I opened up my new set of pots this weekend.
When I first moved out on my own, post-college, my mom dragged me around Macy’s handing me boxes of pots and pans and dishes and stemware and dishtowels and flatware, all while sighing that she didn't get to do this with my sister.
My sister registered for her pots and pans. My mother said she didn't "get" to do this, but she meant she didn't have to do it.
I was 22. She had already given up hope on my getting married. They say a mother knows.
I didn’t cook much back then. Still don’t. So it isn’t really a surprise that the pots purchased on the day that my mother stopped planning my wedding lasted so long. Recently, though, I have noticed that the non-stick surface started peeling and I worried that I was digesting some of it with my scrambled eggs and you can’t wash the nonstick stuff in a dishwasher, which was fine when I lived in an apartment that didn’t have a dishwasher but now I have a dishwasher and I just want to put my pots and pans in there with all my dirty wine glasses and spoons.
So, I bought a new set of pots. Stainless steel. Nothing too fancy. Just the essentials (according to the box). As I was unpacking these new essentials I noticed something.
Not all my pots came with a lid.
Literally: there wasn’t a lid for every pot.
There were three lids. And four pots. The one lid fit a pot and a pan.
Okay, so technically there was a lid for every pot, but the pan had to share a lid. So, maybe in a world of pots – with lids – I’m a pan: destined to only have a lid when the pot doesn’t lay claim to it first.