The Pot Thickens

Imagine waking up on a cool, fall day where the trees are dropping their leaves and the breeze is making them patter against the windows. The day is young but the clouds refuse to let out the sun. These are the perfect days that call for the warm comfort of the food you remember from your past. The foods your family members would make for you when you're ill or to chase poor weather away.

This is where we find our unassuming character, waking up to the chill of call, with an encroaching storm. Her home had an early morning chill to it as well which made it difficult to pull herself out of the warm cocoon of bed. After much deliberation, she agreed with herself that her day needed to begin. She wrapped herself up in a robe before getting her morning routine started. 

Pulling her hair up and out of her face, she found herself in her kitchen where some old, yellowed flashcards had been laid out on her counter. As she began putting them back into the tin box they belonged in, she found herself reading over one of the cards. It was for her grandmother’s chicken stew that she used to enjoy all the time as a child while her grandmother was around. No matter how cold it was or how sick you were, it was a sure fire way to lift one’s spirits. 

She smiled fondly at the card and nodded to herself, deciding that it was what she needed in the moment. Everything needed for the stew was already available in her kitchen which made it fate but if she wanted it done right, she would need to have it simmer all day while she was home. She got to work preparing the ingredients for it, taking care while cutting all the vegetables and starting the broth while the chicken began to cook. It didn’t take long for the space to fill with the scent of spices and warmth; even the chill air dissipated from the space. She found herself reminiscing of the time she’d watch her grandmother make this very same stew and how it always seemed to bring an aura of comfort to any environment. 

It didn’t take long for the stew ingredients to be ready for simmering. She gently slid the chicken as well as the vegetables into the bubbling broth. While stirring everything together and adding in extra spices, trying her best to follow the directions on the cards. For seasonings, her grandmother listed to measure with the heart, which she tried to do but was nonetheless confused. Her grandmother was the type of woman who would pour heart and soul into everything she would make. 

She turned down the temperature to bring the pot to a low boil for it to sit for the rest of the day. After one last stir, she placed the lid on the pot and went back to wandering around her place. It happened to be her day off so she decided to spend it lazing about; reading and watching the oncoming storm from the safety of her window. Curled up on her couch, under a soft throw blanket, she buried her nose into her book for several hours. 

After finishing multiple chapters, she remembered the stew she had waiting for her. She got up from her spot and wandered into the kitchen to check on the stew. Every few hours she needs to check it and give it a stir to make sure it’s coming together correctly. She could smell the stew from under the pot’s lid and removed the lid to inspect the source of the amazing scent. Placing the lid aside, she began to give it a stir when she realized that it was thicker than she anticipated. It seemed closer to gravy than stew which confused her. She added a small amount of water to the pot to combat the thicker consistency. 

“I don’t remember grandma’s being so thick, maybe I didn’t do something right,” she muttered to herself while examining the recipe card she was following for the stew. It was a card that had seen better days but it was something that was important and beautiful in its own way. The directions were written in her grandmother’s cursive handwriting which in some spots were a struggle to read, there was even an ink blot that sat underneath the ingredients list. Her grandmother was the type of person who would use fountain pens and wrote everything down. 

She gave the pot one last good stir before continuing her laid back day, hoping the stew would fix itself. The storm had finally begun to pour over her home, creating light music of pitter pattering rain on the window. Between the rain hitting the window and the smell of the stew simmering, staying awake was nier impossible. She drifted asleep, curled up on her couch without a care in the world. While she laid asleep, her mind wandered around the memories of her past; thinking fondly of her younger years. 

Meanwhile, her kitchen had strange occurrences happening. Her stew pot almost seemed to be stirring itself, like a self stir mug. The broth thickened like a homemade gravy while all the vegetables softened and turned brighter shades of their colors. Everything seemed to come together and was almost finished. The warm scent of the finished stew woke her up from her sleep. With the sun starting to set, it was around the time for dinner and there was no better time with the storm full force over her. She had created a perfect bubble of warmth to combat the cold of the rain. 

She walked into her kitchen and grabbed herself a bowl from her cabinet. Examining the stew one last time before dishing it out, she sighed to herself. It was still thicker than she could remember and was nervous she screwed up the recipe but it smelled amazing. She poured some into her bowl and decided to pull out her loaf of bread to accompany it. With the bread sliced and the stew in its bowl, she was ready to see whether or not it was everything she remembered. She stirred it around in her bowl, pondering why it was so thick. She realized she was stalling and finally took a bite of it. 

It was everything she remembered and more, the rich flavors had combined beautifully and the chicken mixed with the vegetables soaked up all the spices. Every spoonful was a colorful and flavorful moment. She smiled to herself slightly in between bites and reflected on her misplaced concerns. She decided to place a slice of bread into the stew and wander back to the couch to watch the storm rage from the comfort of her warm bubble. 

With her in the distance, peacefully enjoying her grandmother’s stew brought back to life, the stew pot sat on the stove, simmering happily. With no wandering eyes around, the stew began to swirl again as the pot self stirred it around. Sitting next to the pot on the counter lays the open tin container of old, yellowed recipe cards. Each one back where it had belonged and within the lid of the container, a small family picture from the past. The three generations of loving women, and an old beat up stew pot sitting on the counter in front of them. One of the people in the photo being a small child being looked over by a mother and grandmother. 

The cards, nestled with the tin, shuffled slightly as the lid to the tin slowly began to close itself. Keeping everything safe for the next stormy day. With the lid locking into place, hiding the photo once more, a light flour coated hand print was left behind on the lid. The girl in the background, safe and warm, enjoying her meal as the pot continued to stir itself. Making sure it was ready for her when she needed it.