by Samra Jones Bufkins
We’ve all seen the ad. Grandpa can’t remember his granddaughter’s name. Grandma decides it’s time for him to take ______ drug.
While I’m tempted to turn this into a rant about both the pharmaceutical industry and the Alzheimer’s Association over-simplifying dementia by implying it’s only about memory loss, I’d rather relate a couple of experiences we’ve had with vanishing items and how I (mostly) coped.
This is my favorite vintage Le Creuset Dutch Oven. My mom bought it for me when I moved to Indianapolis for my first “big girl” job after college, in 1977. Cast iron with a sturdy enameled exterior and interior, this kettle has traveled from Indy to Riyadh, to four cities in Texas. A favorite for soup, chili, curry, stew, pot roasts, Cornish hens, and many other recipes over the years, it is a dependable old friend. It has some chips and gouges, and will soon be sent back to the company for repair or replacement under its lifetime warranty.
Sometime early in 2015 I made beef stew in my old pal the kettle. At that time, Bill, who was officially diagnosed with younger-onset Alzheimer’s in 2013, still helped with kitchen duty. I was also teaching a full load at a university, so it’s understandable that I got distracted and didn’t notice the kettle was never washed and put away.
Over time, I looked for it. Everywhere (I thought). Closets. Cabinets. Drawers. Storage areas. Under things. Above things. The junk room.
One large flame orange Dutch oven had just disappeared into the atmosphere.