The handle of my pot is inscribed Rachel Ray. The writing is script, the fancy kind that evokes images of gourmet kitchens. I wonder if Rachel Ray knew she'd be spending hours over hot charcoal, the blistering heat blackening the smooth olive green of her exterior. I don't think Rachel Ray intended to be full of grease that never really scrubs off in the tepid washing water. Her nonstick interior and rubber handle were not made for braving the rough African culinary landscape. Rachel Ray did not know where she was headed. Perhaps she would have chosen to be a spatula or a tall, cool water bottle - the expensive sleek kind Europeans favor.
Maybe I am underestimating Rachel Ray. It could be that she enjoys basking in the fire of warm coals. Maybe she savors quiet nights and predictable food preparation. It could be that Rachel Ray would have been terribly unhappy hanging from a kitchen island, hosting dishes whose names she can barely pronounce with ingredients that have to be flown in. She might like the simple life of simmering rice and hot tea.
It might just be that Rachel Ray is flexible, capable of adapting to any environment. Maybe she is courageously braving these moments while waiting patiently to see what the future has in store. For now, she is dependable, convenient, and holds just the right amount for our family of two.
