If these bowls could talk…
They would tell stories…
Stories of cakes baked in them…
Cakes and cookies and all sorts of goodies.
They would tell stories of cornbread made from scratch and fried on a griddle until it was lacy and crispy.
They would talk about a sweet, gentle little white-haired lady who handled them with loving care, washed them by hand in Ivory dish detergent and placed them on a rack to dry in the sunshine that fell from the window above the sink.
They would tell stories about little girl fingers that snuck their way into the batters to taste, that mixed and “helped” and poured and learned.
They would tell of the love of cooking that the little white-haired lady had and shared with her great-granddaughter … one of the things she wanted to share with a rare girl-child in her midst.
They would tell of the loving care in which they have been kept through the years, waiting to be passed down to that now-grown girl-child, who treasures them as so much more than bowls.
If these bowls could talk… the stories they’d tell.