Making Friends

She touched the first skillet, and it burned her.

She touched another, and that, too, burned.

A third

A fourth

A fifth

Regardless how many skillets she touched, they always burned her.

So the logical assumption would be that all skillets would burn when touched.

But her family told her she had to touch skillets, that cooking and frying was something that every person had to do- should want to do.

So she touched another.

And it burned.

Finally, after years of trying, she placed her hand on a handle, and although initially it simmered, it didn’t burn. It reduced its heat to something comfortable, something she could deal with. And then she started to cook.

And she did like cooking, her family had been right!

“Why don’t you use different skillets?” her family asked. “There are plenty others, why do you only use one?”

“I just like this one” she said, “I don’t need any more” she said.

They’ll all just burn me she thought.

Even more time passed, and she realized that the skillet she loved had come in a set. Of course she had seen the other pan, it was a nice enough pan, she supposed. But then she tried to hold it. The handle was warm and sizzling and reluctant, but it didn’t burn her and she cooked with two frying pans at once. And she enjoyed it! Having two was really, really nice.

And so she tried something stupid.

She tried to touch another pan, one that wasn’t even remotely related to her first and second skillets. It burned and it burned and she yanked her hand back with tears in her eyes. For some reason, she hadn’t expected it to burn so badly. Obviously, she was just used to pans that didn’t burn, and she had forgotten her place.

And some days, even her own skillets didn’t want her. They wouldn’t warm up at all, or they’d burn her like they weren’t even hers. Some days she couldn’t cook at all, and it saddened her. It made her wonder what she was doing wrong- if she was doing something wrong. Sometimes whole weeks seemed to go by when the skillets either took no interest in cooking with her, or would burn her.

Sometimes she wondered why she even bothered to cook at all.

Now, some days it was great to cook, and the reassuring feel of a handle in her hand was familiar and wonderful.

But sometimes, it just made her sad.