There Aren't Enough Good Pots in the World For Me

It seems like there's always another meltdown around the corner, and I had a doozie of one about two weeks ago. It was Monday night, and Jackson was in bed. We'd agreed on a new lunch ritual--I bought him a new lunchbox and a thermos, and I was to make him Lipton's chicken soup, and send it to school with him, warm and ready to chug. About 11:30 pm, I put on some water to boil, and went to my desk to answer a couple of emails as I waited.

A few minutes later, Q walked up and made it very clear he wanted to go outside. Being the kind, big-hearted owner I am, I obliged, taking him up and down our block for about 10 minutes. Only I completely forgot about the pot of boiling water on the stove.

Flash back to several years earlier. We'd gotten a new--albeit cheap--linoleum floor after a bizarre kitchen fire caused when Rox left a bag of coffee beans mistakenly sitting on a burner that was on, resulting in a torrent of little coffee-bean charcoals burning our floor and charring the sides of our stove and fridge. Several months had passed when one night, I forgot a pot of water boiling on the stove (while, again, making chicken soup), and when I came back in, the pot was glowing orange, so naturally I removed it, only to watch in horror as globules of molten steel dripped from the bottom of the pot onto the new floor, burning holes all over the kitchen while, amazingly, missing my bare feet. To this day, that burned floor remains in place. It was no doubt one of the many triggers of Rox's depression over the years.

Now fast forward to about a month ago. Jackson and his buddy Jonas are playing video games, and I've got macaroni boiling on the stove for them. While it cooks, I go out to the front yard to pull a few weeds. Lo and behold, I lose track of time for about 20 minutes, and when I realize and come running in, the house is filled with smoke, and those scary globules once again are coming out of the pot, but at least this time, I don't pick up the pan, and the molten steel just sits on top of the stove where it can do no harm. The macaroni is burnt beyond recognition, and my Emil Lagasse saucepan is destroyed. I'm understandably annoyed, cursing myself relentlessly for making this same mistake.

So, back to that Monday night two weeks ago--I return from walking Q, and upon entering the house the smell of burning pot hits my nose right away. I run in a panic into the kitchen, where all hell is breaking loose. Once again, I've destroyed yet ANOTHER pot (my last Emil Lagasse saucepan!), only this time the molten steel has been dripping over the front of the stove, burning a kitchen rag, a floor rug, and several more holes in the floor. I turn the heat off and crumple into a pile of sobbing goo on the floor. I'm devastated. At first, I lament the stupidity of ruining another pot, further destroying the floor, and wrecking the rugs. Within moments, though, my sobbing turns to howls as I realize the real error of my ways--I'd left a very real fire threat smoldering in the kitchen as Jackson slept, alone in the house, just 20 feet away.

How could I be so stupid? How could I introduce the possibility of harm coming to my son, the child I've been (unfairly) charged with raising completely on my own, the most important thing Rox felt she ever did, my biggest responsibility in life? After a good 10 minutes of mild hysteria, I try to move the pot, stupidly, but alas, it's still liquified, and now the molten steel once again drips from the pot onto the floor near my feet. Again, it misses any contact with me, but it does further damage to the floor and another rug before I can get it safely back on the stove.

Now I'm apoplectic. I howl and sob with more force than I've ever known, more even than the weeks following Rox's last actions. It's clear that so much is coming out of me, I just let it go, even force it out harder, seemingly punishing myself for being such a dolt, and hoping that Jackson doesn't wake up to find his father in an emotional swirl and surrounded by an almost totally destroyed kitchen. Then, when I finally start to calm down, I look at the stove and notice there's a slight burn/discoloration on the front of the door, and I decide I better give it a little wipe so it doesn't set. Within seconds after I start wiping, the glass that makes up the surface of the door shatters into a thousand pieces and falls all over the floor (that's the scene below). Now the destruction is complete. At this point, my crying starts to merge with glimpses of self-deprecating laughter. Not that I find it funny, mind you--but I'm becoming aware that one day down the road, this will all seem hilarious, as if it were a scene in one of those dysfunctional family sitcoms. I can't even bring myself to clean up the mess. I just put some chairs around it so Jackson and I don't accidentally step in the glass, and I head to bed, where I collapse in a heap of emotional exhaustion.

The next night, at 8:04 pm, a 5.6 earthquake jolts San Jose. It's Jackson's first earthquake, and it freaks him out. It's one of those fun ones--big enough to give you a thrill and shake lots of stuff, but not big enough to be scary or do any damage. But the implication is powerful enough as the house rattles and I can't help but think, "Don't freakin' fall over before I can sell you!" Combined with the events of the previous night, it's clear to me that someone, or something, is telling me that it's time--time to sell the house, time to get while the getting's good, time to move on to the next phase.

The following night is Halloween, Rox's favorite night of the year. If this all doesn't add up to one ominous message, then I'm not listening. Or watching. Or feeling.

A week later, I choose my friend Ginger Kehmna (a parent from Jackson's school) as my real estate agent, and we have a couple in to look at the house pre-listing. I'll be signing a listing contract this week and the house will be formally on the market in December.

Ready or not, it's time for the big change to begin. Portland, here we come?