I was over my grandma’s house one night when I was a twenty-year-old, foraging through her pantry for cans of soup. (This was pre-Henry, when I did all my food shopping at grandma’s house and the gas station.)
My grandma opened one of the cabinets in the room off to side of the kitchen and said, “You can have these if you want them.”
It was an entire set of these beautiful blue goblets, probably purchased in the 60s. I imagine they probably made appearances at many a dinner party back in the day, in the hands of Florence Henderson-coiffed mod-broads all a-swaddled in A-line mini skirts.
I never pull them out during my parties. I have slo-mo visions of someone busting one over my head during a particularly rousing round of Catchphrase, Faygo cascading down my face.
But once Chooch is in bed, I like to fill one up with wine and pretend that I’m still rich.