Precious little pot.

Today I was infusing olive oil with some fresh rosemary from the garden. The aroma, as I gently heated it in my smallest pot, filled the kitchen and instantly soothed my nerves. I let it sizzle away for a few minutes before turning off the heat and leaving it to infuse a bit longer. I fished out the rosemary then carefully poured the semi-hot oil into a small glass vinaigrette bottle. I needed to use oven gloves for this tiny pot because it doesn’t have a handle.

Why no handle? You might ask. Well, this pot has been with me my entire life. And I’m not speaking in hyperbole. It’s from a set of stainless steal pots my parents had well before I was born. I remember stealing it from the cupboard when I flew the coup because I was so emotionally attached to it. I was anxious to start my new life in a different city (Los Angeles of all places!) and this pot was my version of a security blankie.

Through my childhood years I had used this pot to make countless Top Ramens, Campbell’s soups and packets of Quaker instant oat meal (if you haven’t mixed the peaches and cream with strawberries and cream, you haven’t lived.). Both my parent worked full time so all us kids learned to be self sufficient very early on.

In a sense, I owe this pot my career. It was this very pot that I cooked my first ever dish from scratch. It was chicken tender cutlets that I coated in paprika and garlic salt then sautéed in butter. I was 8 and totally experimenting with something I thought would be tasty and lo and behold, it was! My sisters and cousins (our house was always full of kids) loved it so much they wanted me to make it again and again. And I always used the tiny pot because it felt manageable, even if I had to cook in batches.

So yes, the pot came with me and has remained in my possession through every move. Unfortunately the screws that held the handle on rusted off a couple years back and funny enough there’s no pot handle repair shop to be seen. Do they even exist? Or are we just expected to buy new pots and pans every time this happens?? Well I’m not giving up on my old buddy, no way! Oven mitts are the fix.

Yes, I’ve completely anthropomorphized this small treasure of mine but honestly, it’s sentimental value is priceless. I feel warm and fuzzy every time I pull it off the shelf and I swear it says to me, ‘What are we makin’ today?’.

It’s not my only bit of keepsake kitchen ware. I have a whole collection of vintage crockery, ceramics, tools, cutlery and cooking utensils from all over the world and using them transports me right back to where I found them, without fail. That big ol ladle from a flea market in Reims, France. The retro pink, hand churning, beaters from middle of nowhere Yermo. A crystal glass carafe from Finland, small and perfect for decanting wine for one person.

In a day and age where consumerism has reached nauseating levels, it’s nice to hold on to the things we love and that still work for us. Missing handles and all.

I’d love to hear about your own kitchen treasure trove. Tell me in the comments!