The ancient food processor awakened and declared its willingness to serve a new mistress; to work in tandem with the newly arrived hand mixer; to accept partnership with the inscrutable microwave.
(The range was an old friend, but they knew better than to fraternize while on duty.)
The assigned mission was familiar, welcome, enlivening and just specialized enough that if well-performed the food processor’s place in the permanent arsenal would be assured.
It played its rôle, waited and watched as the purée smoothly filled the pie shell then baked to firmness.
The shower afterwards felt good. Secure in its new commission, the food processor returned to its shelf.
Decluttering my new home of the hoard accumulated by my husband’s long ago-deceased first wife feels like traversing a minefield. There is always the danger of rubbing against unexpected emotion. But, too, I’ve learned to anticipate my own sudden eruptions of anger borne of exhaustion.
Six months ago while staving off intense irritation at having uncovered Even More Christmas stuff — enough to decorate five homes, and very little of it to my taste — the sentimental poem, “Little Boy Blue” of Eugene Field sprang to mind. Its references to the little dusty toy dog and the patient rusty tin soldier left behind by a child who had died years earlier rang so truly that I was in tears and in the twinkling of an eye my views on the whole process of discarding for reuse or recycling shifted.
Last night as I was preparing a dessert, I wrote the first line of the preceding vignette. I finished the tale for this post.