Prose/memoir

I never dreamed  after fifty years,
I would still have my Wonder Ware cookware.
Yet, there it resides in my cupboard.
Sauce pan, fry pan, soup pot, double boiler,
Dutch oven.
Everyday necessities still offering expertise.
Stainless steel.
Waterless.
Even conductors.
Unscratched.
Shiny.
The only part rebelling from time to time, the handle.
From active use, sometimes unscrewing, jiggling.
Enough that I worry the pot might fall, splatter
vegetables onto the floor.
Although, truth be told, that never happened.
Not once.
Not even when the handle wiggled.
Is your curiosity piqued?
Do you question where I got this line of cookware?
Likely, you don’t know the name.
Especially because it’s no longer manufactured.
Well, the story goes like this…..
My husband just finished his second year of college.
He needed a summer job to earn enough to buy an
engagement ring.
He and his roommate each took sales positions at
rival pot companies.
Not weed, cook ware!
Thus, began Bob’s first career as a salesman.
Contrary to expectation, given he was a pre-med student,
he was wildly successful.
He sold so many sets of pots, he earned a steak knife set.
An all-expenses paid trip to Bermuda.
Money to purchase a ring.
Enough to buy a Corvair.
And, of course, the pots themselves.
The most valuable aspect of owning these pots,
their lifetime warranty.
If anything happened to them, any nick, scratch, ding,
they would be replaced at no charge.
I was pretty ho hum about it at the time for a number of reasons.
They sat in a closet for two years prior to our wedding.
I had no idea how to cook.
Nor did I have a jot of interest in cooking.
I was a student, scholar, soon-to-be teacher,
and grad student.
My life was full without simmering, boiling, frying.
But after our honeymoon, I was forced to face those pots.
Bob was studying medicine, and soon would begin
long hours of internships.
By default, I became the cook.
My romance with cooking started.
Making carrots in Wonder Ware.
Take a carrot.
Peel it.
Slice it into rounds.
Add the teeniest amount of water to the pot.
Pop the carrot slices in.
Put on low heat for about 15 minutes.
Voilà! Transformation!
Crunchy to soft, but not mushy.
Still a beautiful shade of orange.
A burst of carrot flavor.
A miracle! my first thought.
Sensuous! my second.
Instantly, I understood why it was called Wonder Ware.
Unlike my mother’s old pitted aluminum pots,
these did their job with less water.
Retaining more flavor, more vitamins.
Wonder Ware became my partner, a beacon of inspiration.
It secretly taught me to cook.
I kept pots and pans close at hand.
Around twenty-five years in, I invoked
the warranty because of a pesky loose handle
or two on my most used pots.
No problem.
Call the number.
Send a check for postage.
Handles, shipped immediately.
At no charge.
We hummed along another twenty-five years.
Until yesterday.
Wonder ware, purchased by Regal.
But still no problem.
Regal would honor the warranty as long as we
were original owners.
My husband, now a retired psychiatrist, boasted
on the phone, not only was he the original
owner, but he was an original salesman.
The representative and he laughed.
She heartily agreed to send him four handles
at no charge other than $11 shipping.
So our Wonder Ware will continue.
Thrive many more years.
Serve us. Serve me.
Warranty still in place.
Likely outlive us.
So if you find our Wonder Ware pots
one day, in a closet nested,
know there exist spare handles.
The ones we just requested.
And though quite along in years now,
desirable, in every way.
Sparkling, strong imaginative.
Seasoned in recipes gourmet!

Lynn Benjamin
November 25, 2021