When my pareve pot became fleishig, I went through the five stages of grief
A couple of weeks ago, my big pareve pot encountered fleishigs. Or did it? In hindsight, it’s hard to know, because I did what every Jewish woman does when she sees her pareve utensils where they aren’t meant to be: Scream. And wash it quickly in cold water.
What’s relevant here is that my husband couldn’t be sure of the pot’s status. He suggested we reenact the crime in order to render a verdict — place the pot on the burner on top of the oven vent, to see if the steam that reaches from the oven broiler is yad soledes bo. My daughter, who’d wandered in after her father (what teenager doesn’t want to be privy to every mundane conversation her parents have in hopes they unthinkingly spill a state secret?) made her pronouncement: The pot was fine.
When I checked, I thought it was fine. But I have Mommy hands. When my husband put his hand over the burner, he jumped back. Under the circumstances, he thought it best to consider the pot fleishig.
I went through my own five stages of grief. Denial: It’s very hard to treif up a kitchen. This can’t be! Anger: Who was silly enough to put the pot somewhere it could be contaminated by meat?! (Me.) Bargaining: Okay, not so much. Would I really never yell at my kids for cutting half an onion with a milchig knife just because I had my pot drying on the vent-burner while meat was broiling underneath it? Of course not. Depression: This is a good pot! Almost 20 years old, purchased on a huge sale, and you know they don’t make things like they used to. It’ll probably cost $100 to replace this pot with something equivalent, and we’re not made of money. Acceptance: What’s $100 when it comes to a mitzvah? Take it! Take all my money. And break my oven — and my washing machine — at the same time! (True story.)
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