History in Pots

There are certain pots I own which maintain, despite fierce, blue-rubber-gloved, soap-sudsy mayhem, stubbornly retain a very faint echo of the last thing cooked in them. The wraith of the previous meal only comes out the next time the pot gets heated up or has water put in it (much like swimmers will smell utterly normal until a patch of skin gets wet, at which point HELLO CHLORINE – those who’ve been intimate with swimmers will know exactly what I’m talking about, here).

This is normally not a big deal, but this morning I leaned over my morning oatmeal, burbling away, and got a big whiff of … turkey stock. I’ve tried to cover it with allspice and cinnamon, but it’s a hard one to shake.