The Red Lid

I wrote this for a class I’m currently teaching on creative work in American Studies. Inspired by our reading of Sherry Turkle’s Evocative Objects: Things We Think With (2007), I asked students to write about an everyday object in their life and trace the associations it has. I did the assignment along with them.

My daughter sits in the kitchen and bangs the Tupperware lid against the floor. The lid is square and red, with just enough give. It is red like a fire hydrant. She waves it in the air and claps it against the kitchen tile. The tile should be cleaner. The refrigerator hums in the background and my daughter is surrounded by cabinets, which I’ll need to baby proof soon. In the kitchen she likes to splash her hand in the dog’s water bowl and she likes to stand up against the oven and pull down the dish towels that hang from the handle. We spend our mornings in the kitchen, my daughter and I. At around 7:30, I make breakfast for me and my wife, an omelet every day packed with veggies and tofu and beans. I must watch my cholesterol. I am 52 and my daughter is not even a year yet and I want to be around for as close to forever as possible. I cut up a zucchini and a tomato and I look down at her. What does the world look like from where she sits? What does that red lid mean to her? It seems as if everything exists for her to see and touch and taste and incorporate into her reach, to assimilate, gaze upon, play with. I encourage all this but I must also take care she does not hurt herself. The lid is safe. The fireplace, the electrical outlets, the computer cord attached to the laptop on the table, the wine bottles on the wine rack, these things are not. I add tofu and pinto beans to the skillet. Then I add egg whites. I hear my wife upstairs listening to a podcast while she gets ready. I have had that Tupperware set for a while now. That red lid covered many leftovers, covered many meals I carried to work, all before my daughter came into the world, before I even met her mother, all before I ever knew what joy fatherhood would be. On most mornings, I play some music while we make breakfast. I dance in front of her, which I like to think is dancing with her, and she waves the lid in the air and then slaps it against the floor. There is almost a rhythm, a beat to get lost in, something we are making together.