Cleaning out a drawer of seldom used kitchen implements, I found a little trove of nostalgia--my maternal grandmother's biscuit cutters, hard-boiled egg slicer, green bean Frencher (I've actually used all of these now and then. Does anyone 'French" green beans anymore?)
Also, a serving spoon that I suspect may have belonged to my great-grandmother--which is why I've not been able to throw it out.
And two spatulas--both of which I remember her using.
It made me think of a meme that was going around--Ways to tell you're old: You have a favorite spatula.
And I do. We have several but there's one, with a wooden handle partly burned off that just fits my hand and slides under pancakes et al effortlessly.
It's the spatula to which Josie was referring, a few years back, when I whined to her that she wouldn't let me play with any of her stuff.
"You can play with your spatula, Meema," she retorted.
I suspect my grandmother felt that way about this old beauty.
This is just the tip of the iceberg. In the pantry hangs a hemmed piece of feed sack material, just like it used to hang in my grandmother's pantry. It's material that her sister Mabel sent her from Alabama back in the Forties and it's right handy for wiping your hands. Next to it hangs a dainty little rick-rack trimmed apron that belonged to one of my neighbors.
Below are a pair of poultry shears and a god-knows-what that belonged to John's paternal grandfather. (There is also a rather naughty nutcracker that was his, but I don't want to get scolded bu Facebook for posting it.
So many memories would be overwhelming if not for the slow pace of this project. I'm constantly aware that these objects that are so imbued with memory for me won't have the same hold on others. So they can toss them--but not me.
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