The pot had been repaired so many times that Mary called it her ‘tinker’s darling’. It had been her mother’s and her grandmother’s, had seen fair times, poor times and even civil war. It hung on its nail more like a trophy than a working pan, looking down on the other pots as if it knew it had a special place.
When her first grandchild arrived and Mary was cooked the meal to celebrate, it was only natural she reached for her tinker’s darling.
When her daughter died bearing the second, it was the pot that cooked for her wake.