“Dear, remember our vows, when you promised to love me no matter what?”
“What did you do?”
(Hangs head) “I was doing the dishes and…it slipped.”
Held out in her hand was my Bowmore whisky glass. Or rather, half of my Bowmore glass. The whisky glass that fit my hand so well, that I had taken comfort and solace in for so many years. Shards. My wife’s face, so disconsolate and awaiting my reaction. She even offered up her own Glenmorangie glass as a replacement for mine. Could she know of the many hours of wonder and contemplation I had spent with that glass in my hand? How well it nestled into my digits? How it had become a part of me?
(Or should I tell her that it was a freebie that came with the bottle?)
This story made me smile. Right time, right mood, and all that. Reminds me a little of how I’m going to have to break the news to my brother that most of his files (including his precious, uh, picture and movie collection) didn’t quite survive the backup and formatting of the family computer.
Mr. S usually does the dishes at Casa Scarlett. Which I greatly appreciate, but he has some habits attached thereto that I would dearly love him to change. Such as rinsing each knife as he washes it, rather than leaving them all in the bottom of the sink, and then putting them on the towel to dry, leaving them haphazardly clanking against each other under all the dishes rather than separating them or even drying them right away and putting them back in the block. He’s also not as careful as I’d like with some of my favorite pieces, and at least he understands that no one but me washes the ceramic soup tureen and ladle. (Yes, a ceramic ladle. Positively frightening!)
He once broke my mother’s deviled egg/crudite dish, but that wasn’t really his fault – he said it basically just cracked while he was holding it (and yes, he’s so pathologically honest that I believe him). When I told my mom about it, she said that it had belonged to her mother as well. :eek: Oh well, water under the bridge. The pieces were big enough that we can glue it back together, but obviously we won’t use it for serving food anymore.
I also have, among my collection of heirloom but intrinsically valueless kitchenware, a set of incredibly thin and delicate glasses that belonged to my grandmother (the same one late of the egg plate). One moring Mr. S came to me sadly to report that he had broken one of the matching juice glasses that we used every morning. I let him off the hook, as he had apparently forgotten that he had been with me when I bought the juice glasses at a flea market, overjoyed to find them because they matched the larger ones I had at home.
I do hope that you get some replacements from EBay, and I’ll also happily chip in a few bucks to see that it happens. What with whiskey/scotch glasses all being so much the same, to find one that rises above the rest takes serious time and contemplation. A harrowing loss indeed.