I’m not someone who enjoys cooking. I’d much rather wash and dry the dishes, pots and pans.

But in this time of staying home, I’ve found myself looking through cookbooks and the internet for easy meals.

I told myself that this was a great time to branch out and try something different. Most of the recipes I saw included some foreign spice or ingredient I wasn’t sure how to find during my usual shopping trips.

So it was back to turning on the oven for the tried-and-true recipes of my youth.

Mostly, there’s meatloaf with mashed potatoes and corn, baked chicken with peas and macaroni and cheese and spaghetti and meatballs.

It’s hard to come close to my mom’s home cooking, but what ties me to her in the kitchen are potholders made by her mother and my grandmother.

My Siti, as we called her, had many talents, but one that still amazes me is her crocheting skills.

She crocheted afghans for most of us, and I still use them. One of my favorites is a blue, beige and white afghan she made almost 50 years ago, and it’s still in great shape, despite being washed and used every winter.

For me, her most artistic creations are the potholders she made out of crochet string. They’re circular and feature a widening circle in the middle with matching colors blending into each other. I have them in gold, purple, blue and red.

Outside of the main circle are designs that look like leaves or a six-sided star.

The backs are simpler, but they’re the same colors as the front. She inserted layers of cotton batting in the middle, and then crocheted the two circles together and formed a lacy edging.

Even wearing glasses, I have a hard time seeing the stitches as they’re so small and delicate, yet these pot holders have kept my hands from burning no matter how big the pan or pot.

I have thicker “store-bought” potholders in the drawer, but they don’t do as good a job as the ones my grandmother made all those years ago.

I use the potholders every day, and they’re showing their wear – there’s food spots on most of them, a couple have a little burn on the edge where I got it too close to the fire, and some have frayed in spots. I’ve done my best to stitch them up as soon as I notice a hole because I’d never throw any of them away.

My mom has some of the pot holders as well, but she keeps them in a drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. When I found them at her house, I asked her why she didn’t use them. She said she was afraid she’d catch them on fire or ruin them.

My sentiments are different. These potholders aren’t meant to stay hidden in a drawer no matter how beautiful they are.

They’re meant to be used because whenever I use them, I remember my grandmother.

I picture her sitting at the end of their gold couch, crochet needle in hand, moving that needle in and out of the yarn so quickly, I thought she was in double time.

I remember sitting close to her, patting the soft skin on her arm, loving the way she smelled and the warmth she gave off.

My sons reach for the same potholders when they’re here cooking, and, one day, I hope those potholders will be theirs. They will mean something to them because they saw me using them, but they also know the rich history behind these family heirlooms.

When I find myself repairing one of the frays on the potholders, I wish one of my grandchildren were sitting next to me so I could tell them the story of their great-great grandmother who wove beautiful potholders and spun mesmerizing tales of her childhood in Lebanon.

There’s not a lot to be grateful for during this pandemic, but slowing down and remembering why the things I use are important has been a blessing.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.