As an Indian woman, I’m occasionally reminded of the severe discrimination that took place within the dimensions of my kitchen cabinet. My mother, in a firm voice, distinguished between the everyday utensils and the guest utensils, insisting that the latter were to be used only when we had company. Even though it’s been a long time since I lived at home, I still remember the stark difference between these two utensils. The everyday utensils were mere skeletons of the guest utensils, with grey interiors and bruised handles. They were victims in their own right, and had clearly endured immense throwing, hurling and washing within the merciless jaws of the soap-lined sink. In contrast, the guest utensils were majestically crafted, stamped with intricate flowers reminding me of spoiled children who had never seen beyond the golden walls of their born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-your-mouth lifestyle.
The difference between these two kinds of utensils also lay in the way they were treated. The ordinary vessels were scrubbed with increased intensity, as the person doing the washing struggled to get the day’s stains off. The guest utensils, on the other hand, were dabbed fearfully with a spotless cloth. The slightest of smudges on the delicate handles were looked upon as a point of personal fury for the person cleaning them, who would then resort to more delicate methods such as toothbrushes and pencil-ends to clean whatever grime that dared to clamber in. Thus, the guest utensils were epitomes of delicacy that were cautiously preserved. It was almost as though they represented our family’s pride and honor, depicting the caution and care we put into our everyday existence. As children, I remember how we were especially instructed to look upon these utensils as role models. Their cleanliness and ability to maintain visual perfection were attributes that we aspired to emulate.
Since the foundation of these beliefs were laid in my early childhood years, I found myself carrying them with me through my adult life. As I moved to attend school in the USA and packed India into the square jaws of my American Tourister suitcase, I reduced the thick yarn of these age-old beliefs into breathless threads and pushed them beneath my heavy jackets. Amid the entanglement of superstition and folded assumptions, I also carried this ideology about fine china with me. Thus, when a New York Times Article entitled ‘Yes, It’s OK to Use the Fine China’ crossed my inbox, I was, for the want of a better word, pleasantly appalled. As I read through the contents of the article, the warmth of challenged beliefs engulfed every part of my body. Backing her argument with well-researched statistics, the author, Rukmini Callimachi, describes, “The use of fine china — and of other accouterments associated with formal supper, like silverware — has been on a downward slope for over a century, and in a nosedive in recent decades.”
Bringing up examples of her real-life interactions with people, Rukmini Callimachi, in the article, talks about Elizabeth Paine, a 66-year-old woman who lived on a peninsula in Maine. For Elizabeth, fine china or “good” dishes are a proud inheritance that date back to 1928. After passing through a line of relatives, these dishes made their way to Elizabeth’s house, who acknowledges their mystical nature in the article, by describing how, on an everyday basis, she enjoys sharing her quiet meals with lovely china and family ghosts. In some families, fine china—or an affection for them—is something that is maintained only by the older generations. Affirming this, Beth Fitz Gibbon, a 77-year-old from Kansas, describes in the article how her son, daughter and granddaughters are not interested. Despite this, Beth continues to run with her legacy, and says that she will enjoy making every snack a feat until she dies. As per the article, when the author, Rukmini Callimachi, reached out to Beth Fitz Gibbon, she used her set to eat a breakfast of yogurt and berries.
Irrespective of its ‘fine china’ focus, this article speaks to me differently. It’s a philosophical polemic—speaking against cautious preservation, encouraging readers to embrace the unpredictability of life. In our attempts to plan for the future, we must not put the present on a glass shelf. Like our fine china, we must occasionally draw the present out of its protective shield, and enthusiastically feast with it.
