Capacity

I am sautéing a whole bulb of roughly chopped garlic cloves in a glug of olive oil. I turn off the burner and search for a container of a certain – what is the word? – CAPACITY.  A container not too big, but not too small. I’ve become somewhat of a nut over this concept of capacity. For example, I cannot simply dump one cup of leftover rice into a two-cup Tupperware. Wrong capacity. Wasted space both in the Tupperware and in the fridge. Or…I eyeball the spaghetti sauce as it cools in its pan, and then, with a critical squint, I select just the right size jar – allowing, of course, an inch or so of head room for expansion as it freezes.

How delighted I was to discover that my darling “daughter” Shelby shares this same interest in capacity. One year, as everyone waddled away from Thanksgiving dinner, we were

surveying a kitchen table covered with partially filled serving bowls: a big blob of stuffing, a spoon or two of cranberry, almost a full casserole of Rutabaga & Turnip Surprise (not a big hit), a platter of weird turkey parts, etc. I reached for an empty plastic margarine tub to hold the remaining sauerkraut. She observed my move.
“Unh-unh,” she said.
“Too big?” I asked, happily surprised that she even cared about this type of thing.
“Yep. Try this,” as she offered a smaller container.

At the other extreme, jamming or overfilling a puny container is no better than underutilizing a large one. The lid must fit without squishing out any overflow. If this happens, I have been known to start over with a clean container of the proper…CAPACITY.  Never mind the extra dishwashing. And I never cover a mound of mashed potatoes with plastic wrap instead of a fitted lid. It’s just plain wrong.

My thoughts about capacity, however, move beyond questions of storage. CAPACITY is also a human quality, a way to describe one’s capability. One’s potential. Perhaps one’s appetite? Maybe one’s ability to share? I’ve known people who have a tremendous capacity for understanding. They’re good listeners, they’re sympathetic, they’re patient. Personally, I think my own capacity for understanding is about average.

On the other hand, my capacity for humor is pretty huge. You could say I gorge on humor. I love to laugh and I love being funny and making others laugh. Give me great big helpings of silly and absurd, witty and slapstick, parody and satire. Make me breathless and teary-eyed and nearly falling down with laughter.

I believe the capacity for generosity increases with the experience of happiness that is derived from giving – whether it’s money, time, effort, or material possessions.  I remember two familiar adages that encourage my capacity for giving: “You can’t take it with you” is one, and the other is, “You came into this world with nothing and you’ll leave it with nothing.”

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I think the capacity for love is a conundrum. It almost defies definition. Is it a type of storage? Does it deplete when given? Does it replenish itself? It seems to be infinitely expandable, no matter the overflow or the depth. Is it uncontainable? There always seems to be room for more. The more I love, the more capacity I have for love.

I’m thinking about these things as I try to estimate whether this pot of bean soup will fit into my big capacity container or my big-big capacity container. Where’s Shelby when I need her?

Julie Helms