that's civilization ...
pots. Big pots, the heavy kind that feel like they're made out
of space-age material and cost about a thousand bucks and you
can set fire to things in them like they do in restaurants where
things spontaneously burst into flame, bubbling in olive oil
I love that long handle and the way you can flip
things in them. Okay, not pots exactly. Skillets.
That's it -- skillets.
You need skill with a skillet to flip a fillet with
dazzlingly deft dexterity. Now that's civilization. I'd
feel civilized with a pot -- I mean skillet -- like that in my
Don't get me wrong. I love pots, too.
Scrubbing pots, lifting lids of pots, pots that
cost about a million dollars.
You know, the kind you find when you get to use
some rich person's beach mansion for the weekend because your
husband worked his butt off making his boss richer than ever.
So boss, in an uncharacteristic burst of largesse, decides to
throw a bone: "Sure, bring the kids, just make sure they
don't scratch up the walls or jump on the furniture ..."
Or break the incredibly beautiful and delicate oversize
blue-glass floaters artfully arranged in a bowl within grabbing
distance of the three-year-old.
Your heart stops as he hurls one to the floor. Miraculously,
it does not break. Everyone exhales, unpacks, goes to bed.
Then it's morning. You hear surf and wonder why.
You open your eyes.
There are no piles of laundry at the foot of the
bed. You're somewhere else. The comforter is goose down, the duvet
matches the towels.
You wake up just enough, go to the kitchen to make
coffee and for seconds at a time forget where you are because
you're so disoriented from all the deep, restful sleep you got.
But there are clues. There's no grit sticking to the bottoms of
your bare feet, just gleamingly silky hardwood floors.
And you fumble around someone else's beautiful beach-mansion
kitchen, feeling in vain for coffee, filters, coffee maker. Then
you realize: Oh -- it'd be gauche to keep a coffee maker on the
incredible pink and gray marble countertop.
Better check underneath.
So you pull on the gorgeous maple cabinetry and
this giant drawer just glides out. See? It actually
glides. No 100-year-old paint to make the wood stick so you have
to tug and yank and hurt yourself. No, it glides out like a fairy
tale. People who have their nails professionally manicured really
do need drawers like this, and of course they should have them,
because ... well, just because. They go with the pots.
And the drawer is just high enough that you don't
have to expend precious energy leaning too far down to retrieve
things. Huge and roomy. You could take a nap in it, or hide from
invading Vikings. It's full of pots. One for each size meal you
could ever possibly make. And they all match.
You can picture the lady of the house strolling
through some fancy gourmet cooking catalogue, saying to herself
things like, "Carlo at Pazzo says these are his favorite,"
and, "Pazzo's pots. Ha-ha. How clever."
She talks to herself because her husband practically
lives at the office, and since there's so much extra money lying
around, she doesn't even need to consult with him on this -- she
just taps the
picture with her long, taupe-colored nails as she orders the set
on the phone.
On closer inspection, you realize no one really
cooks with these pots. They're all new-looking, bought just for
the beach mansion.
These are not pots and pans that you bang together
to annoy your neighbors on New Year's eve. Huh-uh. These shine
like silver bullets.
But I went ahead and banged two together anyway;
very, very softly.
I mean you did, that is. Okay, it's a true
story. I did. You would too. But I was very careful.
Did the pots have a tinny, Goodwill kind of clang?
Certainly not. They made a very sonorous and resonant bong.
Like expensive chimes.
"Time for breakfast, everybody."
The kids loved that. Anybody would.