How a not-so-perfect cooking pan became a lesson in our lives

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

The pan was not exactly a thing of beauty even when it was new, but it was comely, emerging from its box exactly as described: “perfectly balanced … premium materials … beautifully designed.”

My husband held it with both hands as if it were a chalice, then raised it over his head to admire it from all angles. It was a consecration. Only the bells were missing.

My husband contends his pan now looks like a murder weapon.

My husband contends his pan now looks like a murder weapon. BEVERLY BECKHAM

Next, he sat down and read its instructions silently to himself. Then, to all of us who have a history of not “respecting” pots and pans, he recited these rules:

“This pan must never go in the dishwasher.”

“It must not be left in the sink for hours to soak.”

“It must be hand-washed with a gentle cleanser, then immediately dried with a soft towel and put away.”

“It cannot be shoved in a cabinet with the other pots and pans.”

“And you must never, ever use a nonstick spatula or spoon or any metal when cooking with it.”

All of us who cook for him (Did I mention that my husband doesn’t cook?) nodded and laughed and then went back to doing whatever we had been doing. Later that day, we received a short video repeating his instructions. That night, he brought us into the mudroom to show off a hook he had screwed into a wall, on which his new pan was now hanging.

For the record, once in a while my husband does cook. He makes scrambled eggs and they are delicious! He adds water, not milk. But that’s it for his kitchen skills. Mostly he just forwards his emails from Allspice Daily Dish to help me improve my cooking.

So this new ergonomically designed pan, which he bought online, was not exclusively his. He bought it to share. But in sharing, we had to follow his rules.

And follow his rules we did. I never used the metal tongs when cooking bacon. Well, maybe a few times, but I was careful. The grandkids never left the pan soaking in the sink for long. And their mother never snuck the pan in the dishwasher.

We respected the pan.

It got dented anyway. One morning I used it for French toast. Washed it. Dried it. Hung it on its hook. Walked back into the kitchen. And THUD!

It had fallen off the hook. And here’s why: The stay-cool blue silicone “grip” with “a textured underside for incredible comfort and control,” which fits on the pan’s handle, is not attached to the pan’s handle. It’s like a glove. It slips off.

Which is what it did. It slipped off and fell to the ground and its round rim dimpled and I looked at it and thought, this is a tiny dent. He’ll never notice.

He noticed.

And he frowned. And he sighed. And before he could say it alone, we said it together, what we always say whenever I put his “dry clean only” sweaters into the washer or knock over his favorite glass or back his car into a tree. “You can’t have nice things!”

Ah, but now that we knew why the pan fell, we knew it wouldn’t happen again. Except that it did. One day we noticed that where there had been one little dimple, now there were two. At certain angles, the pan, we said, looked like Shirley Temple.

The third fall was solely my fault. Our stove broke. We got a new one. The stovetop is induction and requires induction compatible pans. Nine of my 10 old pans were not compatible. My husband’s new pan was. I’d filled it with water, tested it, and it had passed. So I dried it with a soft towel and hung it back on its hook, where it instantly crashed to the floor.

This time it landed hard. Shirley Temple vanished. My husband contends his pan now looks like a murder weapon.

For a man smitten just a few months ago, he’s chill about his pan’s fate. I’m not surprised at this. He doesn’t cook but he is very even-tempered. He says we should toss the old pan and get a new one.

But I’m not sure I can part with this banged-up pan. It’s a life lesson. The pan’s a mess. Life’s a mess. Even when we follow the rules, we still get banged up. Shirley Temple died. Everyone dies.

And yet, in between all the dents and disappointments and our inevitable demise? There are scrambled eggs to be eaten, jokes to be told, friends and family to be loved, and life still to be lived.

The pan makes us laugh. It’s not perfect. But really, what is?