There is something so comforting, so perfectly weighty and substantial about Franciscan’s Apple , that it is the logical shoulder for the wonderful mound of food I’ll serve to my family on Thanksgiving Day.
It is not so precious- so fine that it can’t be scraped and stacked before washing, or even jostled in the kitchen sink. Young and old can ‘fix their plate’ from the buffet I set up on our kitchen island, and I don’t have to hold my breath.
The older dishes are so much more authentic- their colors deeper, the relief of the apple obvious to the touch.
I feel like every cabinet door in my house is open, as I bring my dishes out of their seasonal hibernation. Mashed potatoes are going in the bowl above. My husband has to have plenty of mashed potatoes.
These dishes were ‘not my favorite’ as my oldest grandson says. I didn’t collect these; my mother did. These dishes were hers. I love them now. Funny how that happens.
Does a tablescape on my living room floor count- as I reach in cabinets, with my neck twisted, pulling out treasures? If so, go see the wonderful Susan at Between Naps on the Porch for the real thing.