To dishes, with love

Our dishwasher is broken so I was doing the dishes tonight when it occurred to me exactly how much I love our plates, with their rudimentary, yet still somehow elegant pattern—just a thin blue line around the porcelain white circumference—and a Crate and Barrel logo stamped on their backs.

We registered for them for our wedding, so that is always my first thought when I look at them. This inevitably leads me to think of all the delicious food we’ve eaten as newlyweds, and the delectable meals to come.

It sounds silly, I know. Exactly how much medication is she on? you might wonder. But to someone for whom food is somewhat of a love story, it’s actually quite logical that I could see the poetry in its presentation.

Some people have the same dishes and plates for their entire lives. Some were bequeathed entire place settings. They are available in so many materials, and while their pattern possibilities are endless, they inevitably remain victims of kitchenware fads. Remember Fiestaware with their Crayola bright colors? Or, how about Corningware with their pencil thin floral designs?

Whenever I go to a garage sale and I see dishes for sale, I immediately wonder how many meals were shared on those plates? How many guests did those serve? How many life changing conversations took place in their presence? How many prayers were said over them? How many were broken in the most passionate moment of an argument? And I turn away, embarrassed for such private items to be displayed and sold publicly, the crude price tags representing the seller’s desire to unload them as quickly as possible. No, I could never buy someone else’s plates, someone else’s memories.

I still have a crystal clear recollection of the dishes of my childhood. My parents’ plates were a speckled tan ceramic with a navy blue line around the circumference. Funny how life repeats itself…

I even remember my favorite cereal bowls: plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I always picked Donatello, which became more obvious as the whites of his eyes chipped—a sure sign of his constant use. Eventually, though, all of the bowls’ eye mask colors faded so it became harder to tell which Turtle was which.

So, yes, as I was painstakingly sudsing and rinsing and drying our dishes, I thought of all the moments they’ve already bore witness to, and all they have yet to see. I wondered if our children would remember them as part of the fabric of their childhood. Maybe one day they’ll be at a garage sale and see the same Crate and Barrel plates and exclaim, “We had those!”

And just like that, an entire feast of memories will be served.