I left work early today and walked down to the new Foster’s store on 3rd Street. I went to take pictures for work and then afterward, Scott and I had plans to meet up to grab some dinner and see the new Coen brothers movie, A Serious Man. I found I had some time to kill between the time I finished shooting the store and meeting Scott, so I found myself wandering around Old City.

It was the first time in years that I had the opportunity to wander that area of the city without purpose. When I initially moved to Philly, I would often find myself with wide swaths of time that needed to be dispatched. On a Friday night, I’d leave work without purpose, choose a direction and walk for an hour or two. I’d explore new neighborhoods, meander down alleys (of course being careful and avoiding streets that gave me wiggly nerves) and eventually make my way home. I was lonely, but it was at least better to be out among people than to just sit at home alone and watch TV.

As the months past, I made more friends and my life started to happily fill. I let those solitary walks drop away. But being out there tonight, even if just for that hour, brought that period of time sweeping back into the forefront of my consciousness. Recalling it, I felt fondness for that era, when I was just at the beginning.

When I was in senior in college, I found a massive Le Creuset pot at a thrift store for $10. It was bright yellow and I was instantly smitten with it. I remember trying to talk my small town thrift store into discounting the price, but even they knew what they had (so what if the enamel was a little bit chipped?). I used that pot whole final year of school, making beef stews and pasta sauces in its room interior, all the while feeling like a real cook.

After school was over, I moved home for a few months, just until I figured what was next. What turned out to be next was a move to Philadelphia, in which I entrusted all my worldly belongings to the Amtrak cargo service (a great way to ship large items from sea to shining sea for very little money). The pot was too heavy, so it was left behind. I promised it that I would be back for it, and my sister took it with her to the house she shared with friends in Portland’s Ladd’s Addition neighborhood. Sadly, when that housing situation finally broke up, my old pot was badly burnt, and the lid was missing entirely. Knowing just how much enameled cast iron cookware cost, I mourned that piece but good.

These days, I don’t find myself mourning the demise of that pot as fervently as I once did, as I’ve discovered that getting married has been the cure for this girl’s Le Creuset woes. The stack you see above represents my cook pot array and I’ve also got a handful of other pieces in different shapes and sizes.

Lest you think our friends and family showered me in hardware, I must admit that the top three pots have been mine for awhile. The very smallest pot at the top of the stack once belonged to my mother. It is the only remaining piece from the set of Le Creuset that her Aunt Doris gave her for her wedding back in 1970. Unfortunately, she learned the hard way that cast iron enamel doesn’t take kindly to regular bleachings.

The orange pot one level down was part of a lot of vintage Le Creuset/Descoware I bought on eBay about a year ago. I don’t know exactly why I did that, but I do so love that little vessel. Next down is a more modern 5 1/2 quarter that Scott bought me for Valentine’s Day the first year we were dating (actually, the pot you see there is a replacement. The first one was flawed and Le Creuset replaced it under their limited lifetime warranty). Nothing says love like heavy duty cookware. Only the bottom two have been a result of getting married. But that doesn’t make me love them any less.

I do believe I am now set for life when it comes to cookware. At least, that’s what I’m trying to convince myself to believe.

You may have noticed that there’s been more activity on this blog in the last few days than in the whole previous month. That’s because it’s NaBloPoMo, the month during which people all across the world commit to post on their personal blogs every day for 30 days straight. Thing is, I haven’t actually signed up or actually promised to anyone that I’m doing NaBloPoMo. But I’ve been wanting to post here more, and this seemed like as good a time as any to do it.

So here I am.

Expect more tomorrow.

Tonight I got home a little later from work than normal, which means that I saw a different crop of people waiting for the elevators than I typically do (funny how when you travel along well-rutted time paths, how you always encounter the same faces). There were two people talking about last night’s Phillies game as they waited for the car to arrive. I smiled and nodded as they turned their conversation in my direction, but didn’t engage in it (despite the fact that I do truly want the Phillies to win, I don’t have a whole lot to add to a discussion between deeply committed fans). Just as the doors were closing, an older man in a dark suit slipped on.

The sports fan kept their conversation going, but got off the elevator on floors nine and twelve. Once it was just the two of us, the suited man turned to me and said, “Are you a Phillies fan?”

“I follow the series for work, but…” I shrugged.

With a knowing nod, he said, “Let me give you some advice. Pick a sports columnist and follow him. Just choose one and keep reading, it’ll give you something to talk about. I’ve been doing it for years.”

The elevator reached my floor as soon as he finished giving me this advice. I thanked him for his suggestion and headed home.

At any point in time, there will always be someone in this building who’s willing to pass along advice.

In my family, my mother is the chief laundry officer. She takes the movement of clothing from clean to dirty to clean and folded once more very seriously. Tee-shirts get folded so that they stack precisely and fit most efficiently in the drawers. Pants are vigorously shaken before being smoothed and stacked. Even underwear is folded neatly and aligned into a perfect pile. And, of course, it is all folded within moments of being removed from the dryer.

I have always been my mom’s acolyte in laundry maintenance. Growing up, I was the only one in the family she trusted to fold her clothes, as neither my dad or sister were particularly devoted to living a wrinkle-free life. However, I must confess that in recent years, my adherence to the “Leana method” has slipped. Often, I’ll do a load of laundry, pile it on the couch and then leave it to sit for a day or two before it gets folded*. I’ll dip into the pile each morning as I get dressed, giving the clothes a shake before deeming them “good enough” and slipping them on.

That pile you see above is the accumulation of several loads of laundry. After taking the picture, I did dig in and fold the whole thing (although it’s still on the couch, just in neater stacks). Sadly, the basket in the bedroom is already beginning to fill up once more. The cycle just never ends (and from what I hear, it just gets worse when you reproduce).

*You might be wondering why Scott doesn’t tackle the laundry pile. Well, I have inherited my mom’s laundry affliction. I just don’t love it when other people fold my clothes (space optimization and all). So while he does occasionally try to help, neither of us end up enjoying the experience.

I spent the day doing a variety of kitchen-based activities. The thing I’m most delighted with? The ten pints of applesauce this pot yielded. Soon, a recipe (actually, more of a technique) will be up on Food in Jars, but for now, I’m just reveling in the satisfying abundance of it.