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Jeremy M Staiman

Kiss the Old Pots Goodbye

The Pots And Pans To Be Replaced
The Pots And Pans To Be Replaced

There’s a time for sentimentality. This might not be it.

I was walking through the mall recently and noticed a great sale. Despite working in advertising, I’m still a sucker for a bright red sign proclaiming how much I can save. Don’t put it past me to come home with three bags of parrot food just because there was a “buy-two-get-one-free” special.


Did I mention we don’t own any pets?


So, when I saw the “Up to 70% Off!” signs at the Soltam cookware store, my feet—almost as if they had a mind of their own—propelled me inside to check out the deals.

Surprisingly, there was no bait-and-switch. The entire inventory really was 50-70% off. Knowing we had long wanted to replace some of the pots and pans that had accompanied us through 41 years of marriage and six moves (including the momentous one to Israel), I let my wife know it was time to take the bold step of clearing out the old and bringing in the new.

***

It was an odd time to think about kitchen paraphernalia. We have a war going on. The hostage deal—seemingly in constant jeopardy—was front and center in the news. The country was grappling with the schizophrenic phenomenon of welcoming some of our captives home while absorbing the unthinkable cost of their freedom.

“Are we opening the doors for monsters to go back to planning their next October 7th?”

And, at the same time:

“What color pots should we get? Do we need a larger frying pan?”

***

There’s a new-age phrase that’s gained popularity in recent years: “Holding space.”


It means that two very different emotions or ideas can co-exist if you make room for them in your mind. You can “hold space” for both. This concept resonates deeply with me. In a world dominated by social media’s all-or-nothing, good-or-evil opinions, “holding space” allows us to feel and think disparate things simultaneously, rather than being sucked entirely toward one extreme or the other.

It allows us to—at the same time—fear for our fate as the terrorists’ prison doors swing wide open, while unabashedly shedding tears of joy as young women are reunited with their loved ones.

And, yes, even while deciding which color pots we want to accompany us into our senior years.

In fact, it seems that we all have to hold space these days. As the war continues on multiple fronts—nearly 500 days in—all of us have had to create our own personal war-life balance. We’ve had to overcome the paralysis that struck us early on and return to some semblance of routine. Some fragile facsimile of normalcy.

So we hold space for this and for that.

***

I’m a big fan of tech guru-turned-Israel-advocate Hillel Fuld. When the shocking news broke that his brother Ari’s murderer would be released as part of the hostage deal, I wondered how he and his family would react. Would they somehow manage to swallow their unimaginable pain, at least long enough to celebrate the return of our people? Or would this turn them resolutely against the entire deal?

A family like the Fulds never disappoints, and they never fail to uplift—even under mind-bendingly horrific circumstances. Hillel posted a photo the next day of dozens of family members enjoying a meal together at a burger joint, united in supporting and strengthening one another. They gathered to move forward with the strength of lions. Ari, the legendary Lion of Zion, must have been smiling with pride from Above, albeit perhaps a tad jealous that he couldn’t join them in a good hamburger.

But what truly impressed me was one of Hillel’s posts the following day, when the first three young women were finally brought home.

Hillel Fuld’s Social Media Post

 

If the Fuld family can hold space to find beauty—and even joy—despite knowing that it comes hand-in-hand with the release of the monster who robbed them of their son, brother, and uncle, then we ALL must do what we can to acknowledge the positive gems amidst this sea of muck!

***

Now back to the cookware—and what it has to do with all of this.

In addition to being unable to resist a sale, I’m also a sentimental guy.


Or maybe just a hoarder.


Either way, it’s hard for me to part with things that have been a part of my life, and these pots and pans have cooked thousands of my wife’s delicious meals over the years. In my pots-and-pans pondering, my mind flew to two places.

The first place I found myself in was our Sukkah.

At the conclusion of the festival of Sukkot, as we bid our Sukkah goodbye until the following year, there is a lovely custom of reciting a short farewell prayer and then kissing each wall. It’s a sweet gesture of appreciation as we part from this beautiful mitzvah.

So, maybe, just maybe, I’ll take a cue from that tradition and give a little kiss to these pots as I bid them adieu, recognizing all the good times we had together.

But then my mind shifts to the second place, my parents’ home in Binghamton, during a visit with my wife in the late 1980s.

The phone rang, and a few minutes later we heard my father upstairs, sobbing. I had never heard him cry before. He was inconsolable. At 60 years old, he had never lost anyone from his immediate family—save for a stillborn second-born child.

The call had come from his baby sister, Mimi, whom he adored. Mimi was ten years his junior. She wanted him to know that she had just received a serious cancer diagnosis. The family’s valiant battle over the following months proved unsuccessful, and the youngest in the family predeceased her brothers, her sister, and her parents.

My father was always an avid sports fan. The year we lost Aunt Mimi was the same year my father’s beloved, long-suffering Mets finally won the World Series, and his cherished Giants earned Super Bowl rings.

I made a comment that he must be thrilled that, after following his teams for decades, they had finally proved their mettle and won their title games.

I’ll never forget his reply:
“Somehow, it just doesn’t feel very important right now.”

***

I’m trying to give away our pots so their legacy can continue. But if I don’t find a new kitchen for them to call home, I doubt I’ll be overly sentimental about saying farewell and tossing them in the garbage. I haven’t decided yet whether there will be any kissing involved. But in this roller-coaster world of brothers and sisters at war, returning hostages, and monsters at large, I can’t hold much space for old pots.

Somehow, that just doesn’t feel very important right now.

About the Author
Jeremy Staiman and his wife Chana made Aliya from Baltimore, MD in 2010 to Ramat Beit Shemesh. A graphic designer by trade, Jeremy is a music lover, and produces music on a regular basis -- one album every 40 years. He likes to spend time with his kids and grandkids slightly more often than that.
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