Monthly Archives: December 2013

My home is an eclectic mix of children, pets, and furniture, never more as apparent as on holidays. On Thanksgiving and Christmas, we set our family table with delicious family recipes, served on inherited china and in mismatched goblets—nothing matches, of course, but none of this matters. There was a time when my children were small, I was young and stupid and obsessed with my house resembling a catalog or magazine home. How foolish was I. My family quickly changed that concept—that my tablescape should mirror Martha Stewart’s with coordinated china, crystal, and silver, and my trees trimmed with themed ornaments and strung with perfectly arranged, twinkling lights. My bulbs stick on some strobe cycle, or the entire strand burns out from one “dead-watt” bulb, which I can never isolate. My china and crystal are chipped or nearly non-existent. Silver? Seriously, silver plate.

We married during the year of the “salad spinner,” that plastic bowl that gyro-scopes lettuce to oblivion. Salad spinners were inexpensive, since our wedding fell on the heels of Christmas, and practical, judging by the number we received in December 1982. We did not receive china or crystal or silver. Thirty plus years later, I appreciate what we have. I have stories—lots and lots of them.

Awhile ago, I inherited my grandmother’s china, the Johnson Brothers set that depicts country scenes throughout the year, which is appropriate since we live in the countryside. When I set the table, I remember my grandparents, gone long ago but not forgotten. I acquired my grandmother’s recipes, such as curried chicken with cashews, apples, and raisins, her minced pie, her pumpkin pie, her crab cakes. I am grateful for her well-turned recipes, and in awe of the brave woman who held her family together during the Great Depression by opening a restaurant in Hollywood. Her amazing meals attracted stars off the movie lots and they autographed the tablecloths in her little café—people like Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, Katherine Hepburn, and Lana Turner.

Through the decades, my husband and I have attended over thirty proms and have the glassware to show for it. We both taught high school science at Seaside High for eighteen years, “scoring the best extra duty” of prom, and now have sets of phony crystal from a multitude of proms. The unifying element is that each glass has the school name, “Seaside High” embossed on it. The long-stemmed, champagne flutes reflect the prom themes—in blues, grays, or black tints, or clear glass with fancy scroll, or fogged glass or etched in random patterns, or with gold or silver rims. Mr. and Mrs. Harrison were entitled to taking one apiece as chaperones, therefore we gathered a nice assortment.  Perhaps Martha Stewart would approve of that.

Our fine tablecloth has a story, as does our fancy crystal bowl.  Years ago, our neighbors left town, sold their home for a song, and returned to their homeland of Romania—all in one weekend. I recall the family standing at our front door early Saturday morning to say goodbye, and handing us a few prized possessions they saw no point in taking back with them. The tablecloth is hand sewn from Romania, of course, and the crystal bowl is almost too lovely for our home. It is perhaps the only “real crystal” we own, with the fancy signature on the bottom of the bowl—not Princess House or American made—but European old-style—Baccarat? It was the next family who informed us why the Romanians hastily departed and under what dire circumstances. I have no idea if they made it to Romania or to prison, but crimes and indictment were part of the gossip. Nice people.

Our Christmas tree ornaments are connected, since nearly all are gifts from students through the years—some handmade, some Hallmark. A few apples, naturally, among the lot. Many are 4H projects by our own children. Many are music instruments, such as tiny violins on a string, or gilded treble clefs hanging by a wire, as music is another significant part of our house. None match, of course, which matters not in the least.  All are priceless.