Why would I polish away memories?

“I do have copper powder,” a one-time guest said about my copper pans hanging from my beams. It is not that I don’t like shiny copper pots. For me their patina is made of memories and to polish them would erode their history.

I bought them at the local antique store even though they had no tin lining. Attempts to find a tin smith in France or Switzerland were useless, until I talked with my Syrian friend living in Paris, who said this craft still existed in Syria.

Thus began a pan-by-pan excursion to Paris and the pans were transported on individually with different Syrian friends going to Damascus. None questioned my sanity to my face. The pans came back tin-lined to Paris and eventually made their way back to Argelès to be hung on my beams and to cook my meals.

Well one pot stayed in Syria. The tinsmith was intrigued by the French design, so I sent him one to keep.

These are my memories of the pans, but they had their own life before I found them. I wish they could tell me stories.

Did a little boy run in from playing and peek in a pot only to discover peas when he was hoping for potatoes?

What sauces were stirred up to flavour a Christmas roast?

As a woman sautéed onions, was she angry at her husband? Proud of her daughter’s notes at school? In a hurry because she had other things to get done?

Was one ever thrown in anger or dropped spilling its contents on the floor to be eaten by the dog?

In a way their patina is like my own face, with its smile lines, which also tell of my memories. Thus the pots will remain silent and unpolished as I make new memories with new meals.