My new shiny pan reflects who I truly am – a dull beige omelette

I didn’t realise I could get quite so excited about a pan. A pan…yes, a simple pan.

If I was to specify the nomenclature of my new dazzling silver pan then it would be a simple frying pan. But it’s got some bulk behind it. It’s heavy. It feels nice to hold. It’s strong, stable. I can rely on this pan. It’s sturdy, built for reliability.

I ring my mum. She bought me the pan. A gift.

“I love the pan mum,” I say.

“It’s about time you had a good pan,” she replies. “I chose it carefully. I believe it will be a good friend to you.”

I know we’re in the depths of lockdown doom but I never thought of a pan as a potential companion.

My mum’s on speakerphone so I can hold the pan. It feels so nice. It’s beyond all proportion just how nice it feels. It’s begging to be held. Begging, I tell you.

“You need to christen it,” she announces. “Something you’ll both remember.”

Jesus, we’re about to consummate our relationship. With my mum on the phone and the dog by my side.

“With what?” I panic. “What am I going to cook?”

“Think missionary. Don’t get elaborate or flouncy, just keep it simple,” she instructs. “Don’t get too fruity, just get the job done.”

Are we really having this conversation. I realise conversation topics are at a low point, but really?

“Don’t dither, jusy get on with it. Time isn’t on your side” she decrees.

Are we having parallel-world-conversations? Are we both still talking about the pan?

“I was thinking crêpes Suzette,” I reply quickly. “That would be fun.”

“Absolutely not, it’s not about fun. That’s far too adventurous. You’re not nearly ready for that, don’t go thinking you’re something you’re not. Start slow and steady,” she urges. “That kind of thing is out of your league. You’re more in the omelette league. Yep, omelette is perfect for you.”

“Is that how you see me. As an omelette. A dull, basic, beige bloody omelette? I think I can do better than an omelette,” I say desperately.

“Omelettes can be very comforting,” she announces.

I don’t want to be bloody comforting, I want to be a flaming French crêpe set on fire so that I dazzle and burn. Not a bloody omelette, the food of the sick and convalescing.

“I’m going now mum,” I say in my sad voice.

“Okay darling, glad you like the pan,” she gushes.

I did like the pan. Did. I bloody hate the pan now. The pan has revealed who I truly am. The human equivalent of an omelette.