Venecia had few possessions, but, Tomek noticed, she had a lot of pots.
Women always have a collection of pots. And they always seem to be given more, at wedding parties, and birthdays, and gift exchanges. When they are nomads or move to a new home, they always travel around with their collection of pots.
There are several kinds:
First, there are 'tea-pots'.
A lady without her tea-pot just isn't quite the lady. How shall she serve up a steaming brew to a suitor who comes a-calling?
Islands girls simmer. All the time.
Islands girls have a tea-pot on the fire, simmering on a back burner, all the time.
Ready to throw in a dash of witch's herbs at any time.
Bewitching brews, — where the steam curls up in the air, so intoxicatingly — and travels for miles, to bring a man to her pot.
And if she likes who comes in out of the forest, she'll throw in her best 'love-potion herbs', so they'll cast a spell, and he'll stay and sip, and his eyes will get all big, as he stares at her, and gets sucked into her world...
And when married, a woman needs to throw in all kinds of healing herbs into her tea pot, to keep the health of her family vital.
She sets the mood, of his and her day, and all her brood, by the kinds of herbs she throws in her pot. If she throws in some 'maté', or 'green tea', then it's an energizer, — to get her snoring man out of bed, and out working for a spell. Pumping him full of 'energy' teas, ... so he can bring home the bacon.
Then, come evening, the catty woman may throw in such herbs as the 'damiana leaf', and the 'love-herbe', so that she gets a really blissful, sensual, romantic rendezvous with him.
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Then, there are her 'cooking pots'. No teas go in there, but from here, she feeds her folk. In this, the big, black pot on the fire, she cooks her stew and goulash. Stewing and stirring, all day long. And as she stirs, he can watch her pumpkin-bottom, in her long, long skirt, swaying softly, back and forth...
She's gonna feed her man; and all her brood...
Every woman's got her own, favorite recipes. Hidden, secret recipes. Recipes passed on only from mother-to-daughter, — or from witch to apprentice, — and between best girlfriends. (And never told to men, which is why men can't cook. Why men need women, if they want to eat.)
Rival women are always trying to steal her recipes.
And the food from her pot sends up a steam, which curls in the air, so intoxicatingly, and travels for miles, to bring a hungry man to her pot.
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And then, her last kind of pot, — her secret one, — is her own 'honey-pot'. No rival woman can ever steal that pot. Because it's inside her. It's her own, inner brewing pot that the Great Spirit gave her. With its own, unique, intoxicating, bewitching, steamy brew and perfumes....
She thinks of love all day long, as she stirs her cooking pots, — and her thoughts go deep, deep, down inside her. To her honey-pot. Sweetens it with such a bewitching brew of love, that no man can resist. Fills it with her inner charms, — of secret, seething passions....
It rises up out of her pot, out of her panties and out of her long, long skirts, and rises, like a pink mist, in the air, where it can travel for miles and miles and miles...
To the one who has the nose for her.
A man can smell a pot of tea a mile away.
A hungry man can smell a pot of cooking stew two miles away.
But it's said that a man can smell love many, many miles away.
Like the elephant in the mighty jungle, he raises his trunk and roars.
It's said that if her 'one and only' be on the other side of the world, he could still smell it, for it will come to him in a dream. The pink mists will reach out and nab him in the nose, and drag him to her.....
For the phallus is the primal nose.
But maiden, you've got to make sure you're brewing a potent brew. Think about your hidden love. All day long. It'll get your inner pot steaming....
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And lastly, it must be said, that women have another pot (if polite company here won't mind us saying so). Women have their pee-pots. For when ye tea, ye shall pee.
When it's too cold to set foot outside, they squat beside their beds at night, and let their nightly rains run loose. Men just hose it out the front doorway, and don't care if the mailman steps in it in the morning, but good girls don't do this.
And some of these demure ladies so adorn their pee-pots, with flowered paintings on the crockery, that you'd never know just what they are, and you'd say: ''that's a lot of crock..!'', if someone told you.
Lined up alongst the floor of her hut, three colored pots, all in painted flowers charming as can be, even a gambler couldn't guess which the teapot, which the soup-pot, and which the pee-pot. All we can say is, don't go hungrily digging into some woman's cupboards where you don't belong.