Here is Part II to follow ROYALTY
My plan is to continue working on a memoir — maybe this piece fits in it, maybe not. Either way, I look forward to immersion at the writers’ retreat to see how it emerges.
In addition, I am nearly completion of the extraordinary tale of the flight of my mother’s family to the America.
Part II: PEWTER:
My sibs and I went through my parent’s house after my mother died to find the things that had meaning to anyone of the extended family and friends. No one else but me wanted the pewter chicken eggcup. No contest even. Believe me, a soft-boiled egg, so important that our family made up the word ‘eggie’, remains a sacred delicacy. Our family has many vessels and utensils for eggie consumption. Frankly, this particular irregularly dented oblong pewter loop—abstractly suggesting the body of the chicken—does not actually stabilize the shelled delicacy. Perhaps this is the reason my siblings passed on it. Perhaps they reasoned that the unstable base making the likelihood of spillage of the runny yolk of the oval delight made for a less desirable heirloom. Their loss, my gain. I rotated it to inspect it from different angles: alternate uses could be a bottle opener, or missing part from a metal cart, or even a medical tool. What an odd gizmo, I concluded.
The essence of the pewter eggcup was as a memento. The form was a mere wisp of suggestion of hen in its form. Holding it my hand, I melted knowing that had been a baby gift for my mother, designed by my grandfather’s beloved friend who died in Auschwitz, a Bauhaus artist. Who cares if it is functional anymore. Sighing, I imagined the smell of my mother’s hair. I envisioned her in our kitchen teaching me how to make perfect soft-boiled eggs. And importantly, how to set our eggies in our eggcups with the pointed side up, waiting just the right amount of time to crack and peel off the top shell. The bright white warm white of the eggie would come off like a new moon. The viscous rich viscous richly yellow yolk could be scooped out and slurped. When I was a youngster with growing pains, I swear I immediately felt my bones stopped hurting.
Once every speck was out of the shell of the eggie, we would turn the eggshell over in the cup, so that it looked like a brand new eggie. My grandfather, eyes sparkling always, pretended he would eat the contents of the secretly empty eggshell. He would crack the top with the spoon a few times until the eggshell caved in to its empty center. Then he would pretend to cry, and we would explode into laughter. Our grandfather joined us in glee, head tossed back in joy, . We laughed until our faces hurt, all of us together in the clean, shiny, safe kitchen.
As I look at the pewter chicken egg cup now holding a freshly soft boiled eggie, I experience a flood of fond memories of a simpler time, when eggies were the source of comfort and playfulness. Even now, my insides light up with love every time I see the worn and dented pewter chicken eggcup along side the porcelain hatless princess on my kitchen shelf.
Thanks for reading.
Do you have mementos from your childhood? Inside family culture, like our eggie world? Comments and reflections are welcome.