The Little White Bowl...

The Little White Bowl…


The shards of porcelain lay in shreds around my bare feet. I stepped over them nimbly to search for my clogs in the back hall, and grab a dustpan and broom from the pantry closet. I had mistakenly thought that a hardwood kitchen floor would cushion most wayward objects. That little white bowl had just slipped from my hands. It hadn't even fallen very far. Certainly it didn't have much monetary value, just broad sentimental memories. With its handle on one side and its spout for pouring on the other, it was the perfect baking accouterment for my grandmother. How many times had I precariously perched myself on a high stool to watch her mix and knead? Enough times that even forty-five years later, the scene is imprinted on my brain.

My grandmother's Dorchester kitchen was laid out long before the days of streamlined Formica counters and cabinets latched to hide clutter and dust. Her kitchen was a melange of open shelves filled with canisters of nuts, brown sugar, and dates. Baking sheets and muffins tins came in assorted sizes, as did the tables in the center of the room with surfaces perfect for rolling dough and decorating cookies. School vacation days started early for me at her house because she always believed: "…early is the best time to cook…before the neighbors start phoning and the fruit and meat deliveries interrupt…".

The back door was never locked; its screen was hardly ever hooked shut. How else would the milkman have come right into the kitchen bearing a carton of eggs, pounds of butter and even the large curd cottage cheese that I liked best. At eight o'clock in the morning, I would still be sitting quietly in my flowered flannel nightgown while sipping milk flavored with Grandma's coffee as the milkman greeted me with merry surprise flushing his face. "What was I doing there?" He wondered aloud, and then I would laugh and explain that I was visiting for just a few days.

There was a warm comfort in Grandma's kitchen that emanated not just from her huge gas stove that she lit with a match, but from the trill of her voice as she brewed afternoon tea and shared a story with one of her many female friends who stopped by to see how smart and tall her granddaughter had grown. I could feel her pride in my ability to read big books, play Beethoven sonatas on her piano, and look pretty in a new velvet party dress trimmed with white lace. But could she foretell the future when I would reflect on the ease with which she prepared enormous holiday meals, entertained endless groups of people, and always showed a serenely happy face to the world? Would she have guessed that as an adult I would frequently slip into one of her handknit sweaters to warm myself during a dreary evening while I perused her cherished recipe cards, carefully written in her faded script.

Years later when I set up my own kitchen, she insisted that I take some of her molds for jello and bowls for mixing. At that point in time, she was no longer planning large-scale feasts as she had moved from her three-decker house to a small apartment with a kitchenette. Her molds and bowls have always had honored spots on my shelves as they help me remember her while I gather ingredients, measure, and marvel at how she did it all with even-tempered grace. With the loss of the little white bowl, my supply has dwindled to two cooking bowls, one green and one white, made of the same porcelain. I also have a wooden bowl and a chopper that Grandma used for dicing apples to make Passover charoset or for cutting up chicken livers to make a liver spread. Even though I have her French Limoges china plates, which are festive to use on special occasions, the mixing bowls become part of my daily routine.

Now that she's gone, I feel close to her when I pour my mandarin orange concoction into her star jello mold or mash potatoes and butter in her green bowl. Picturing her benevolent smile, I wish I could glue that little white bowl back together. Somehow she seems further away as I sweep the pieces into the trash. I almost feel bereft at its loss, knowing that I'll miss it the next time I'm pouring a sauce or preparing a pudding.