The Minnesota Farm Woman

My cupboards are full of a mixture of many things. When I was younger, I wanted everything to match, whether it be clothing, furniture, dishes, or flowers. The coordination of colors and objects gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside, and all was right with the world. You may call it shades of OCD, but I just wanted everything to be perfect. Fast forward to the darker side of middle age: During my spring cleaning this year, I got rid of a cupboard full of heavy, matching dinnerware that I’ve had for years and replaced them with lightweight plates and bowls. Why have half a cupboard filled with matching cups when everyone always reaches for their favorite old coffee mug? Why keep a coordinating teapot that has been used only twice? I made room for the new dishes and some of my mother’s things with a little room left over. I acquired my brother-in-law’s grandmother’s plates through a series of sisterly “if I take this, you must have that” trades as we cleared out our mother’s apartment. I don’t know if other sisters do things like that, but we do it often. Squeezing the contents of three households into two was not easy for either of us, and some things just had to go to make room for both old and new. I cleaned out a few drawers and went on to the closets, too. Getting rid of stuff feels as good as losing ten pounds. Well, almost. Our Easter table this year was a mishmash of different things from different people. Mom’s quilt was the tablecloth for the new/old pastel-colored plates and platters. The wine was poured into garage sale crystal glasses and the salad was served on my favorite little china dishes which once probably belonged to someone else’s mother. Nothing matched. The ham was baked in my grandmother’s old beat-up roasting pan. The pickles, a gift from my cousin, were made using Auntie Olive’s recipe and served in a relish dish that was a wedding gift to my parents nearly 57 years ago. Dinner conversation between family and friends was punctuated by the squeals of our toddler grandson as he threw my mother’s silver spoons on the floor one by one, over and over again. If there was ever any worry about missing loved ones, it was gone in a minute. You see, they are always with us in one way or another. Perhaps it is through a quilt or a pile of old dishes. Perhaps it is through a recipe or a memory or the laughter of a baby on a beautiful spring afternoon. Easter is the season of miracles, comfort, and rebirth. The combination of the old and the new was a gentle reminder to me that life indeed goes on. That, my friends, gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling like no other.