When I look at this clay pot in our kitchen,
a few memories always come back to me first.
The time I left it soaking in water even though
I knew I wasn’t supposed to, and ended up cracking it.
The time I completely ignored the sound and smell of the rice cooking, and burned it black.
The bottom of the pot is still dark from that day.
Part of the lid handle is chipped too.
Maybe I handled it too roughly.
This clay pot originally belonged to my parents.
Around the time I became a university student and then started working,
my parents had finally begun traveling together more often.
Both of them are from Osaka, and during one of their trips around the Kansai area,
they bought this Nagatanien clay pot.
I remember thinking,
“That’s actually a really nice one.”
The rice cooked in it was always so delicious.
Years later, when Moriyan and I started living together,
I was looking through the kitchen at my parents’ house,
searching for things to bring with me.
My mother had kept so many beautiful glasses and plates she’d received over the years
— wedding gifts, souvenirs, little things saved away for “someday.”
And at the very end, I pointed quietly at the clay pot.
“This too…”
My mother hesitated for a moment.
She made a face like, “Really…?”
Then she laughed a little and said,
“Fine, take it. Honestly, Suzu, you take everything with you.”
And that’s how the clay pot came to me.
It was something my parents bought after they finally had time to enjoy life a little more.
I imagine they must have chosen it excitedly.
“Take good care of it,” they told me.
I think I had always longed for a life with a clay pot.
A quiet life where rice cooks slowly while steam rises in the kitchen.
A life where I could stand there and notice the smell of warm rice.
I had that image somewhere in my mind.
But my actual life looked completely different.
Work sat at the center of everything.
I was always busy just trying to keep up with each day.
Even after coming home, my mind stayed full of unpleasant moments
from work and worries about tomorrow.
Cooking itself felt exhausting.
All I could think about was how to finish things as quickly as possible.
The sink was always full of dishes.
And the clay pot was there too.
One day, I burned the rice completely black.
I can’t even remember what I was doing at the time.
But I know I wasn’t standing in front of the pot.
The bubbling sound of boiling water.
The sweet smell of rice filling the room.
The steam slipping out from the little hole in the lid.
I missed all of those signs.
Or maybe I wasn’t even looking for them.
The burned rice hardened into a rough black crust, and
I remember thinking I’d have to soak it to loosen everything.
But then I just left it there.
“Don’t leave it soaking in water.”
I knew that already.
And eventually, a long crack appeared across the bottom.
Even though I had been told to take good care of it.
Even though my parents had probably bought it so happily.
As if trying to hide my guilt, I tucked the clay pot away deep inside a dark red cabinet.
More time passed after that.
And then one day, when the longing for that kind of life slowly began returning again,
I took the clay pot out for the first time in a long while.
When I lifted the lid, there was a thin layer of mold inside.
The clay pot was alive.
The instruction booklet had said to store it somewhere with good airflow.
I had hurt it again.
I couldn’t tell my parents.
I felt like I would disappoint them.
But looking back now, I think I simply didn’t have enough room in my life back then to care for something like this properly.
I longed for a slower life, but I couldn’t actually feel my life while I was living it.
Now, the clay pot sits somewhere airy and bright.
It stands on my favorite kitchen shelf almost like the main character of the room.
I love watching it in the late afternoon sunlight.
I love the clear little sound the lid makes when it gently touches the pot.
Once the water begins to boil, the clay pot starts making soft, comforting sounds.
Tiny movements shimmer along the edge of the lid as steam escapes.
The sweet smell of rice slowly spreads through the kitchen.
“It’s coming… it’s coming…”
I find myself watching the steam hole, waiting for that sudden burst of steam to rise out all at once.
For some reason, I really love that moment.
I feel like I’m slowly becoming someone who can properly care for a clay pot.
Back then, I burned it, cracked it, even let mold grow inside it.
I was immature, exhausted, and desperately trying to get through each day.
But I think the person I was back then had already started trying, little by little, to steer my life somewhere else.
And because of her, I can now stand here and listen to the sound of the clay pot again.
This clay pot knows all of those years.
This donabe has quietly stayed beside many seasons of our life.
If you were curious, you can find a similar one here.