On my weekly pilgrimage to my parents on Sunday, I snuck into my grandparents old basement apartment (I didn’t really sneak, you see when my father asked me to go to the downstairs garage to get some cans of cranberry soda – aka the new taste sensation – out of refridgerator #2, I simply took a detour first). My goal was to find something nostalgic that would spawn a recipe which could be shared here.
There will be no recipe in this post.
And so there they rested. In the cabinets just above the sink they hid, completely forlorn – one yellow, one red, piped with a now-chipped black rim.
With abilities enabling them to withstand the temperature of scalding ladles of chicken soup or perhaps perfectly al dente pastene – on those days of inferm, chock-filled with TV gameshow watching – they also carefully contained and denied countless streams of ice cream melt from trickling down on the floral motif-slickened and spun-vinyl backed protective barrier that stood guard over the cleanliness of the kitchen table. They valiantly served as temporary vessels for generous handfuls of dry-roasted peanuts and contained the splashes of many-a skim-milk-soaked Kellogg (sic) cornflake.
I’d be bluffing if I claimed their discovery didn’t require me to choke back a few wet ones. For the first time ever these puny bowls filled my mind, not my tummy.