My father always ate from a large round silver plate, and my mother from an oval one. I can’t remember which of these two had a knob missing at the bottom, but I am guessing it was my father’s because he usually ate with much gusto and the plate would move, wobble, and rattle with each mouthful he took. I was given a shiny round stainless steel plate with solid sides, so nothing ever spilled out. My mother must have given it to me at some point because now, 70 years later, I still eat from it.
Utensils have a long life and hold stories from long ago. My grandmother used to cook in a large copper pot. As a child, I watched with wonder as it was polished with tamarind pulp to a shine every time. The inside gets a coating of tin every few years. Imagine my delight when my mother gave it to me! I still believe it is the vessel that gives a delicate taste to the various dishes I make. I am teased as I carry it on visits to our children’s homes. But what else can recapture the taste of my childhood?
Our firstborn was given a spoon with a maroon handle when she was one, which still looks immaculate. I have not had the heart to give it away to her. Every time I spot it in my kitchen, memories of easing a spoonful of cereal into her mouth come flooding back.
Sitting on our sideboard are three precious dishes with blue cornflower designs on the outside, reminding me of our visit to the Corningware outlet near Ithaca in the US. How we venerated them! Now we have ceremoniously gifted them to our grown children,
who wonder at our reverent handling of the dishes!
One large vessel in our kitchen has a hard tale to tell. It was sent to us in a crate of other dishes by my mother-in-law when we were setting up home in Bombay. An obliging relative offered to carry it in their car. Alas, they and the crate were hit by the Koyna earthquake in 1967. The vessel carries a dent as a mark of survival!
Recently, when our son brought home a turntable, we were amazed to see that our old records could have a second life. As the LPs came out of hibernation, it was a rediscovery of times past and a happy reminder that some things do come back. Each LP revived a memory of who gifted it to us or when it was bought with carefully saved scholarship money. Sometimes the memory was about a friend who always asked for that record to be played as soon as he entered our home!
Jostling for space amidst a plethora of knick-knacks in our steamer trunk is a maple leaf ashtray. It was one brought by my father from Toronto when he was there on a fellowship in the late 1930s. We were not yet born, but the memories are of my mother’s careful preservation of it, even though she strongly discouraged him from smoking! The smoking habit may come and go, but the ashtray will stay forever!