Therapeutic Misadventures

Stark white with a raised ridge like a well made pie crust. Tiny, pale flowers around the edges. Were they cornflowers or colored daisies? I remember when my parents were feeling comfortable enough to invest in this first real set of dinnerware. These were the plates of my childhood.

If, like me, you sit down to at least one meal a day at home, the dishes that food is presented upon have a story.  We may not think of them often, may not ponder the pattern or colors chosen, or remember the millions of repasts enjoyed from them. It wasn’t until I sat down for a last meal with my mother that my eyes focused for the first time in years on her plates; then slid out of focus at the flood of memories;  the tables they graced, the family and friends they had served. I was sad to realize they…

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