The year of possibilities

And a year of internal questioning. Plus, scrubbing pots is a great way to process your feelings.

My mom always starts her year off with a written list of goals. I usually end mine by tackling some kind of massively ambitious cleaning project. I think about how each of these tasks embodies our different approaches for clarity and order. While she leaves the ashes of the past behind, I lean into the catharsis of sifting through it, sometimes quite literally. Often, this manifests itself in the form of a physical task, like taking apart entire closets or drawers and putting all of its contents back after a ruthless culling and deliberation of each item.

The last 2 years I scrubbed pots. I’m not referring to your typical everyday dishwashing chore, but an arduous process of mixing together a thick concoction of vinegar, salt, and baking soda which I slather on like a paste to the charred bottoms and sides and leave on overnight. The next morning, I get to work. I take an oyster knife and peel away at the softened burnt bottoms, chipping away layer after layer, the evidence of years of meals cooked daily over gas flames. I take whole lemon halves and rub its acidic juices right onto the steel to break down anything left that’s stubborn. Then I take steel wool and scrub away at the parts I can’t scrape off. Depending on the pot, it can take up to 2 hours to make one look almost new. The Christmas my dad died, I cleaned 10.