The Yellow Colander

The cumin scented the air momentarily and she smiled. She loved all the scents, the sudden warmth on her face when she lifted the pot lid, the process. She loved the food but making the food was a moment of bliss: scent and sensation.

If she could have nothing else, she would have these moments but with something different. A yellow colander.

She saw it online while browsing pots and pans and other things she couldn't have. She loved the enamelware with the reds and blues and speckled surfaces, the Rachel Ray collection with its bold colors, just like the chef herself. Even the old timey femininity of The Pioneer Woman roasters and bowls made her smile. But then she saw the colander...

It was $12.95 on amazon. It was lemon yellow, bright but not garish, a simple piece for the kitchen, something every kitchen needs but bright and tart, lemon yellow, sunshine in a sink.

And she wanted it.

The drained kidney beans sat in the wire colander she'd inherited from his mother and she frowned. Kidney beans with their dull red bodies sitting in a drainer made of mesh and boredom. How much better it would look if it was black beans sitting against a bright yellow. Food that looked joyous to make and would add more flavor, richer flavor.

$12.95 was a small price but he would see it and ask her. "Why you need something new when you already got what you need?" Even his imaginary voice grated against her nerves. He'd insist she return it and that would hurt even more than never having it.

The kidney beans went into the chili and the old wooden spoon stirred them in, the dull red disappearing into the vibrant red tomato sauce. It would taste so good with black beans added and sharp red pepper. A small jalapeno chopped fine would add a bite of heat and taste. Her mouth watered.

Why did life have to become so dull? Why did the smallest pleasures become out of reach? If a splash of color would bring joy, a sweet pepper would whisper a melody against a tongue, why were they always something she never got? Something she could only dream of?

His truck made old truck noises when he got home and she heard him enter, boots hitting the floor, a sigh, a deep breath. He came into the kitchen and stopped, breathing in.

"Chili," he said. 

"Chili," she agreed.

"Cornbread?"

"Sure." It would take a minute and if she made the cornbread like his grandma with the creamed corn and sour cream (of she was a rascal, she was!) it would be only a few minutes more.

He dropped his lunchbox on the counter. "Thanks babe. Call me when it's ready. I need to check the spark plugs in your car."

Right. There was the beginning of knocking when she drove. "I want to buy a colander," she said suddenly. "I saw it online and it's so yellow and I want it."

He shrugged. "Your kitchen. Do what you want. Call me when dinner's ready."

She smiled. There was sour cream in the fridge and cornbread mix in the cabinet and a yellow colander that needed to come home.