A prompt! Huzzah! I have missed writing these so much. Writing this one was a bit of a struggle at first. I knew I wanted to write from the point of view of the pots (and I went with cooking pots and not like plant pots) and I wrote about 500 words with a bunch of different pots before this idea came to me. It’s from one pot’s point of view, so please enjoy!
There was an odor wafting through the kitchen. Most people who could smell it would likely call it a bad odor. Not terrible, by any means, but not good. There was a young man standing in front of a stove, cooking… something. All kinds of things were being tossed into the concoction — a concoction that resembled food if you squinted — and nothing seemed to help the smell. It was a faintly burnt kind of smell, hadn’t quite crossed over into the stench category yet. The young man, arguably the chef of the evening, seem undeterred. He had a look of concentration on his face, and a hum leaving his lips.
He seemed satisfied with what he was doing.
The pot he was using, on the other hand, was an old one. It had been gifted to the young man as a graduation present, and it had sat in boxes throughout the young man’s college career. Mostly forgotten about until he found an apartment with a decent kitchen, and a woman to impress. The pot, it had missed being used for food. It had missed being in the thick of things, hanging from a rack in the kitchen, and always being around. Always knowing what the family was up to. Being used to make things that tasted good, according to the family. That smelled good, according to whoever was eating. Pots… they don’t have noses. They don’t have mouths, either. It isn’t like they can taste what is being put in the them. Not… not in the traditional sense, at least. But, this pot, it had been around for awhile before its temporary retirement into an old box. It could remember when decent meals were cooked with it. It might not be able to taste a thing (or thankfully smell) but it knew that what it was being used for was… a monstrosity.
The pot didn’t know whether to feel happy with finally being put to some use or not. Was it truly better to used for something like this than to waste away in a box? The pot wasn’t sure. It liked to think that any culinary experience it provided was… was better than wasting away.
“Are you almost done, Gavin?” A voice the pot didn’t recognize asked, entering the small kitchen space. Not like pots have ears to hear with — but they do hear all the same.
“Almost, Cyn!” Gavin said, exuberantly.
“It… it smells interesting,” and then a head peeked over Gavin’s shoulders to peer into the mess in the pot. “Looks interesting too.”
Gavin seemed undeterred by the tone of voice. Nothing, apparently, could bring him down. The pot had always liked that about Gavin, it supposed. And it wished it could make the food taste better than it knew it would.
Time doesn’t really mean much to a pot. All this pot knew was that it was being used, more and more often. Not always by Gavin, sometimes by Cyn and a few memorable experiences of being used by Gavin’s mother once more. The pot had really missed her cooking. The pot was happy, overall, to being used again and Gavin seemed to be turning into a better cook, each time he attempted a meal.
“This is Cyn’s favorite,” Gavin said, and the pot knew that Gavin was speaking with the brand new puppy the couple had bought to match their brand new house and new kitchen. If anyone cared for the pot’s opinion, it really liked the new kitchen.
The puppy was sleeping on his bed that had been dragged into the kitchen. It didn’t respond to Gavin, and while the pot wished it could, it didn’t either. It also had some pointers it wanted to give to Gavin. Life would be much easier for cooking utensils if they could help their people out. Because the pot knew all about what recipe Gavin was attempting.
It was ambitious for him. The pot also knew Cyn by this point, and it knew that even if the food tasted like tar in her mouth, she would smile and say it was delicious. Gavin seemed nervous and the pot wondered if it had to do with the meal he was butchering, or something else. The pot could read and understand Gavin the best in the house. Probably since it had known Gavin from his childhood.
“I hope she says yes,” Gavin said, and the pot felt like Gavin was telling it that instead of the puppy.
It was a house, a couple of kids, and another dog later. The pot had long ago been joined by newer pots and pans, but Gavin always had a tendency to gravitate towards it. The pot was happy with that because none of the newer ones seemed to enjoy the creative license that he took when cooking.
No need to remind the pot that it too hadn’t really appreciated those odd little experiments and cooking shortcuts that Gavin took in the beginning. But, these days, it did.
“We are going to make something special for Mom, okay?” Gavin was saying to the young children standing around the stove with him. The pot had no idea how old the kids were. All it knew was there was no longer a lot of crying, and spit up. The kids were mobile and sometimes the pot was used as a drum, being banged on by spoons and other silverware. It didn’t think it made good music but the kids seemed to enjoy it.
“Okay!” said one of the small children.
Gavin smiled at the excitement in the child’s voice, and he bent down to tweak their nose. Then, he began to explain what he was doing. The pot wanted to correct Gavin on occasion, but it wasn’t like it had a mouth to do so and besides, it seemed like the kids and Gavin were having fun with it… with whatever it was they were making.
The pot had been placed back in a box. It had no idea how long it had been closed up in the box, jostled around occasionally as it moved. It wondered if now it was finally retired, a sad life of nothing but darkness and no interesting smells, no interesting food being made with it. The pot, it wasn’t ready to retire. It felt as sad as an inanimate object could feel.
Suddenly, there was light, and a head peeking out at it.
“Hang on, Mar!” The head said, and then hands were picking the pot up, and placing it on a small stove top with only two burners. The pot was in a kitchen again, one that was small and cramped. The kitchen reminded it a lot of where Gavin had lived so long ago, but somehow, more cheerful.
“What are you going to be making, Darcy?” Asked a voice that the pot did not recognize. Darcy was a name the pot knew. Gavin’s oldest daughter and it looked as if she had grown up too. The pot, it felt happy, and a little anxious too as memories of Gavin’s first solo meal in it flashed through its mind.
“My Dad’s favorite,” Darcy said, “only better.”
The pot wanted to laugh at that, and maybe even cry. Mostly, though, it was happy at being in a kitchen again.