Safety Valves

All y'all with InstaPots thinking you're cutting edge... you got nothing on Beatrice and her domestic tribe back in the 60's and 70's. No siree, InstaPot is just a Presto cooker with an electric cord. Mama's was beat up and pock marked as I recall. There was the steamer insert just like in the picture. She was fascinated by how quick she could cook potatoes - keep in mind this was before the poke-some-fork-holes-in-that-spud-and-nuke-it days. Presto cooking was not for the faint of heart, though. We had heard tales of inexperienced cooks who blew the lid off and flung bits of silver queen (corn), Kentucky blue wonders (beans), or Chandler Mountains (tomatoes) to the four corners of the county. Scrubbing soggy produce off of a swirl-textured ceiling was no joke. The price of this convenience was achieving that perfect balance of steam inside the cooker. The thing standing between perfect potatoes and globs of tomato on the wall was a release valve - called a regulator. That thing would hop and dance around on the lid and the more the steam built up, the more it jiggled. That movement just enough to let out a little pressure and prevent an explosion while concentrating the steam in the pot. When the time was up - there was a chart of how long to cook things in the accompanying recipe book - Mama would turn off the heat, wind the edge of her apron around her hand and gingerly lift the regulator off. This was tricky business because a right good head of steam would have built up inside. Woe be it to the one who got in a hurry and tried to open the seal before the safety valve had done its job. Many a serious burn resulted from a hastily opened Presto. When the spewing and sputtering died down, it was safe to open up and scoop out the tender goodness. Just thinking about it takes me all the way back to that hot Alabama kitchen with modern coppertone-colored appliances. (Yes, copper was a thing back then, too. There's very little new under the decorating-sun.) So much of what I love - and miss - can be traced back to that kitchen. And Mama. Always Mama. When things are hard, I often wish I could just call her up for a minute to wallow in her innate comfort. But I'm the Mama now -trying to do my best in these difficult days. It's not easy as it looked in Mama's kitchen.

I've been thinking about the pressure building up in this groaning old world. And how some folks are quick to rip the lid off and spew stress-steam all over the place - on social media mainly. People get heated up about the strangest things. I really am trying to just say, "bless their hearts," and go on. Then there are others who are out there singing, playing, applauding one another, organizing car-parades, gathering 6 feet apart in hospital parking lots to pray - releasing the pressure in the best way they know how. Letting the dangerous anxiety escape safely. I witness such lovely moments and find myself letting go a little, too. Quiet wonder flowing down my face, washing the worry into well-worn wrinkle-lines. The stress doesn't disappear and it will build again, to be sure. But for a minute, it is alright to open up and examine the mellow sweetness that rises to the top. It's helping so far, this little safely valve operation. My game plan is to manage the falling apart a bit at a time, in order to get through this thing without coming apart. To let the tears flow but not drown in them. To let the regulators spin and dance and grace-aprons wind around the sad days. To breathe deeply. And to embrace the beauty of epiphanies in the ordinary. Be well. Selah.