The Corningware Stage of Life
Mark and I got engaged and we were ready, I suppose, for that stage of life. At least, it was a well-known stage that we were familiar with. Now since last Saturday, we find ourselves in a new and lesser-known stage which I shall fondly call the Corningware Stage of Life.
It all began at a bridal shower that my Aunt Jo threw for me. I was overwhelmed by all the wonderful presents we received. Then, when we got them home, Mark and I had to start to replace our old things with our new, grown-up things. Suddenly we find ourselves with real pots. For the first time in my life, I’m not using a mish-mash of orange pots and green pots and silver pots and glass pots and some lids that match and others that don’t and some pots with loose handles and some with grime that won’t come off. We're actually reading instructions on how to properly care for our cookware. And we suddenly have an abundance of lovely soft, matching towels. We have beautiful dishes that one might serve on at a cocktail party (mind you, we only have four pasta bowls, but it’s a very respectable start). We have a pizza stone for heaven’s sake. No University student has a pizza stone. In fact, we even have a pizza cutter. I don’t think I have EVER owned a pizza cutter (my mother used scissors). We have matching placemats and we have a lasagna-shaped corningware. I can be one of those women who frets at potlucks that she won’t get her corningware back. I can stick a piece of masking tape to the bottom and boldly write PERON in marker (notice I said Peron….not Loftus). We have a beautiful brass bell. University students don’t have art in their backyards. They have couches and road signs and kegs. We have original pottery – a lovely teapot made by a local Owen Sound artists. And, get this, we have a kettle that whistles when it’s boiling. (Mark was horrified to read, as he was throwing out the old kettle (see earlier blog) that its warning said “If pot EVER boils dry, discard immediately!”). And I knew we had left an era behind when Mark filled our kitchen cupboards with our new glasses and carefully laid our old ones out on the table. There they sat: those skinny beer cups that are impossible to get your hand down to the bottom, a few lone survivors left from some collection of long ago, a few bought at a garage sale for a quarter, and maybe a keepsake stolen from a Kelsey’s on a drunken impulse.
Gone are the stolen Creelman cutlery days; Welcome Corningware Era.
Mark and I got engaged and we were ready, I suppose, for that stage of life. At least, it was a well-known stage that we were familiar with. Now since last Saturday, we find ourselves in a new and lesser-known stage which I shall fondly call the Corningware Stage of Life.
It all began at a bridal shower that my Aunt Jo threw for me. I was overwhelmed by all the wonderful presents we received. Then, when we got them home, Mark and I had to start to replace our old things with our new, grown-up things. Suddenly we find ourselves with real pots. For the first time in my life, I’m not using a mish-mash of orange pots and green pots and silver pots and glass pots and some lids that match and others that don’t and some pots with loose handles and some with grime that won’t come off. We're actually reading instructions on how to properly care for our cookware. And we suddenly have an abundance of lovely soft, matching towels. We have beautiful dishes that one might serve on at a cocktail party (mind you, we only have four pasta bowls, but it’s a very respectable start). We have a pizza stone for heaven’s sake. No University student has a pizza stone. In fact, we even have a pizza cutter. I don’t think I have EVER owned a pizza cutter (my mother used scissors). We have matching placemats and we have a lasagna-shaped corningware. I can be one of those women who frets at potlucks that she won’t get her corningware back. I can stick a piece of masking tape to the bottom and boldly write PERON in marker (notice I said Peron….not Loftus). We have a beautiful brass bell. University students don’t have art in their backyards. They have couches and road signs and kegs. We have original pottery – a lovely teapot made by a local Owen Sound artists. And, get this, we have a kettle that whistles when it’s boiling. (Mark was horrified to read, as he was throwing out the old kettle (see earlier blog) that its warning said “If pot EVER boils dry, discard immediately!”). And I knew we had left an era behind when Mark filled our kitchen cupboards with our new glasses and carefully laid our old ones out on the table. There they sat: those skinny beer cups that are impossible to get your hand down to the bottom, a few lone survivors left from some collection of long ago, a few bought at a garage sale for a quarter, and maybe a keepsake stolen from a Kelsey’s on a drunken impulse.
Gone are the stolen Creelman cutlery days; Welcome Corningware Era.
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