Spring cleaning has started early. The cupboard in the bottom of my pantry yielded an eclectic mix of items (in clockwork order):
1. a Pikachu plate
2. a recipe book from my former church in Dunbarton, NH
3. my mother's wonderful shortcake recipe
4. my North Park College ID card from sophomore year (!)
5. "Lilla Hjälpredan," a Swedish cookbook from 1898 previously owned by an Anna Johansson of Ulricehamn, and later, Augusta Ahlgren in NH, and
6. a letter dated1951 from someone in Gorham, Maine to a person who lived in a neighboring house on our street in Manchester, NH. The postage stamp says 3 cents. Neither the sender or the recipient is known to me.
How does one life collect such an odd assortment of items? The Pikachu plate was likely from my now 19-year old son's 8th birthday party. It has been hanging around for 11 years and still hasn't morphed into Raichu. Must have been defective. The church cookbook serves up cherished names and memories of shared worship and shared meals, as well as memories of boxes of extra recipe books the women's group never sold for their fundraiser. Church bazaars across America are filled with such spiral-bound delights. My mother's index card is bespattered with flecks of flour, butter stains, and blurred ink--the sign of a good recipe. The ID card, well, let's just say that Partridge Family hair-do's were in. The Swedish cookbook was likely a gift from the bereaved family of an elderly Swedish immigrant. I have received some interesting Swedish memorabilia in this way; Mormor or Morfar dies and the totally Americanized family no longer knows what to do with their loved-one's old hymnal or cookbook or trivet or wall doo-dad. The family asks if the Swedish-speaking pastor wants it. Sure. Hand it over. Rumor has it there is a convention of long-forgotten items it can sit with for the next twenty years. It won't be lonely. The letter is a bit more difficult to place. I believe it must have been tucked into a cookbook I got at a yard sale on Porter St. In case you are wondering, it was raining in Maine on December 9, 1951, and Cheryl will need her tonsils out.
Is your life, like mine, a collection of many people and places? Some we know, some we don't. Odd that they should meet across the decades in a pantry cupboard. Odder yet that my hospitality to them has been so delayed. Maybe it's time to make some shortbread, or "kokad äppelpudding," serve it up on a colorful plate, and invite some stranger or new-found friend in to enjoy it. Maybe it will even be worth writing home about.
1. a Pikachu plate
2. a recipe book from my former church in Dunbarton, NH
3. my mother's wonderful shortcake recipe
4. my North Park College ID card from sophomore year (!)
5. "Lilla Hjälpredan," a Swedish cookbook from 1898 previously owned by an Anna Johansson of Ulricehamn, and later, Augusta Ahlgren in NH, and
6. a letter dated1951 from someone in Gorham, Maine to a person who lived in a neighboring house on our street in Manchester, NH. The postage stamp says 3 cents. Neither the sender or the recipient is known to me.
How does one life collect such an odd assortment of items? The Pikachu plate was likely from my now 19-year old son's 8th birthday party. It has been hanging around for 11 years and still hasn't morphed into Raichu. Must have been defective. The church cookbook serves up cherished names and memories of shared worship and shared meals, as well as memories of boxes of extra recipe books the women's group never sold for their fundraiser. Church bazaars across America are filled with such spiral-bound delights. My mother's index card is bespattered with flecks of flour, butter stains, and blurred ink--the sign of a good recipe. The ID card, well, let's just say that Partridge Family hair-do's were in. The Swedish cookbook was likely a gift from the bereaved family of an elderly Swedish immigrant. I have received some interesting Swedish memorabilia in this way; Mormor or Morfar dies and the totally Americanized family no longer knows what to do with their loved-one's old hymnal or cookbook or trivet or wall doo-dad. The family asks if the Swedish-speaking pastor wants it. Sure. Hand it over. Rumor has it there is a convention of long-forgotten items it can sit with for the next twenty years. It won't be lonely. The letter is a bit more difficult to place. I believe it must have been tucked into a cookbook I got at a yard sale on Porter St. In case you are wondering, it was raining in Maine on December 9, 1951, and Cheryl will need her tonsils out.
Is your life, like mine, a collection of many people and places? Some we know, some we don't. Odd that they should meet across the decades in a pantry cupboard. Odder yet that my hospitality to them has been so delayed. Maybe it's time to make some shortbread, or "kokad äppelpudding," serve it up on a colorful plate, and invite some stranger or new-found friend in to enjoy it. Maybe it will even be worth writing home about.