No More Mugs
In a tragedy that would hurt me daily if I didn’t work so hard at not thinking about it, I’m not allowed to buy more mugs. Not one. None. That’s been the rule for years…and yet, somehow, more creep in. I don’t know how. I follow the rules! Don’t let that rule make you think we’re a houseful of mug-haters! On the contrary! We drink a lot of tea. And coffee. Hot cocoa. And we love a good soup. So naturally we love mugs. Tall and narrow, short and fat, big or small (but not too small,) we love them all. And I mean, all. Let me explain. When I need pans, I buy them new—when I need pans, that means non-stick pans, because otherwise I have my glorious will-last-a-lifetime All-Clad scratch-and-dent from my wonderful father, which you can have when you pull them from my death-stiffened clutched fingers IF my roommate isn’t already there to defend them. I’m always down for a new kitchen gadget, and those I also acquire new. For reference, see my Instant Pot, my multi-cooker, the air fryer, the stand mixer, the spiralizer, my beautiful Vitamix… But dishes? Variety is fun, and also dishes are transient. We tend to be clumsy, you see, and we don’t really care. I figure there’s enough guilt in the world—no one needs to feel bad because they broke part of a fancy set of dishes. Chips happen. So in my house, the cabinet is full of thrifted dishes. Thrifting…