Each morning as I sit at my kitchen counter eating
breakfast, an incomplete set of antique crockery sits opposite me, a reminder
of the world of my grandmother and her kitchen. It was the same kitchen that produced
her crisp top-of-the- range- noodle kigel,
her sweet kichel and her healing chicken
soup. Her kitchen fascinated me. There was a radio on the old white enameled
table, where my grandfather sat at one end, sipping his glass of hot tea
sweetened with sugar cubes in his mouth. I was frightened by the dumbwaiter
with its cavernous opening and reverberating chain that trolleyed things up and
down, to and from the pit of the building. My favorite thing in the entire room,
other than my grandmother, of course, was her canister set. They were rectangles
of the whitest china decorated with tiny bobbles, light gilding and heavy gold
lettering: Coffee, Tea, Nutmeg, Ginger. A whole mysterious world of unknown spices and
elements were spelled out before me. At the top and bottom of each receptacle was
a delicate row of pink and yellow flowers painted over a ribbon of black. The
canister covers looked like miniature mansard roofs. My five year old self
would sit and stare at them wide-eyed, mesmerized by their beauty, fascinated
by their potential. I understood that that they were special and not to be
touched.
My grandmother was aware of my admiration for the set and
smiled. With a glint in her eye she would say “Marshcheleh, they will be yours when you get married.” This offer
appealed to my youthful covetous side, but more importantly, it also filled my
heart, then as now, with the special warmth of grandmother’s love.
My grandmother died when I was fifteen. The crockery set was
stored for safe keeping in my parents’ garage, up on a shelf that my father
installed for this and other items. Dad was ingenious, but he was not a great
craftsman. Eventually, the shelf failed and my precious carton, filled with my
grandmother’s gift, “humptied–dumptied” its way to the ground. About half the
pieces survived, many pasted together with yellowing glue. Though I never
married, I treasure my grandmother’s wedding gift to me. There on my kitchen shelf, the vacant canisters
are filled with life’s inheritance of love and heartache, joy and disappointment,
lives cracked and repaired, but still there. From time to time, when I give
them a gentle bath in warm, soapy water my whole being smiles.
M.Hoffer
Jan. 2020
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