Kitchen Companions By Carol Sundberg The pot and lid shared the cupboard shelf. She, the pot, grew used to his hushing her. Just as she’d start to burble and boil, down he’d drop on top of her. She took the heat gamely – as well as nicks and scratches from wire whips and stainless spoons. The lid lolled on the cupboard shelf until the stirring stopped, came along just as her energy was rising and clamped down hard. He kept his store-bought sheen. Gas flames never licked his bottom; sauces didn’t scorch his sides. She aged. She was scoured regularly; He shone from dish towel’s soothing touch. Month followed month. Plum pudding gave way to asparagus puree. Summer’s tomatoes thickened into sauce. Jack-o-lanterns transformed into coriander-spiced pumpkin soup. She took his putdowns, because he was, after all, flat and empty, while she, queen of the buffet table, was borne, round and hot, to a trivet of honor, her insides brimming with delights.
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