Writing Challenge I – Kate Jenkins

Kate Jenkins lives in Denver, CO and is trying desperately to escape the practice of law.
Is learning that having visions of being a writer is far different that actually writing, but still wants it but bad!


At least Greg had deigned to leave her the red Le Creuset stockpot. She saw it right away when she walked in, singular under the weak and buzzy, fluorescent kitchen stove light, apparently the only thing he hadn’t taken from this, her favorite room in their now former home. Before she could get too pissed though, Meredith realized she was genuinely grateful he’d left it for her. She loved the fucking thing even now, even though Greg had given it to her, a new-love induced, far too extravagant Christmas present from their first, impoverished winter together. It was still beautiful sitting there, the first really nice thing she’d ever really owned.

Since they hadn’t been able to stand even to talk to one another at all at the closing earlier, she was surprised to see a note tucked underneath the pot. For a second, she thought maybe Greg had finally gotten mean enough to leave a note for the new owners of her house telling them they could keep it now. But then she saw her name, “Mere”, written in Greg’s familiar, lovely architectural print.

“Dear Mere:

Was it my fault you guys split up? No, I guess not, but you know, us kids always worry about that. Can’t you guys still work it out? No, I guess we both know that can’t happen either.

No, but that sucks! I mean it really sucks. Remember that first year at the apartment and you had never even made pasta before and you put it raw into the cold water and it sort of cooked together into a glob of wet flour and egg paste? Now I can’t believe you’ll graduate from culinary school in a month and Greg won’t even be around to be part of it.

Oh and that time there was the monumental snowstorm in 2003 and you guys only had a bag or two of dried navy beans and some bacon in the house, so you tried to make soup without soaking the beans first. You kept swearing dinner was getting close to done, but three hours later the beans were still hard and you and Greg were hammered and eating stale Saltines, laughing your heads off.

And there’s lots more that by their sheer number make it seem impossible you and Greg could physically separate. I know it doesn’t make up for the time you made his favorite pomodoro risotto as a surprise and he didn’t come home that night. No rice, no matter how good, can fix that. Or the fight where I think I ended up on the floor in a puddle of chili, with my paint chipped. Anyway, like I said, sucks.

So I guess you won the fight over me, but I’ll always feel like Greg should have fought a little harder.

Love, L. Ecreuset, your stockpot.

P.S. Please don’t mention this little talk to Greg. I’m pretty sure he feels like he should have fought a little harder for me.