Platters of wholesome goodness
It is a bright, stormy day and my head is full of heavy things.
And while I want to believe being all grown-up, facing these things head on, and standing up for what I believe in will always turn out for the best, I need a mini-hiatus. The kind made of toasted crumpets and fuzzy socks.
So. today is a day for plates.
Remember how I wanted to start having pretty dishes in my world?
It’s just one of my things.
I rent a furnished apartment. The bed isn’t mine. The sofa isn’t mine. And until recently, the dishes weren’t even mine.
It was fine at first. When you are a hopping world traveller, sometimes stuff is just stuff.
But sometimes, just every once in a while, a cup is more than a cup. And you want your own things to collect around you like memories to stave off the darkness.
Et voila.
[Ahem. Ignore my wrinkly bedspread.]
My mom sent me that alphabet plate as a random happiness mailbomb when I was homesick once. I love its Martha Stewarty goodness.
The swirly one was a long-ago-gift from my office Secret Santa – the inimitable Anna Not Karenina. Long before we went to Sharjah and she started saving the world through Cultural Happenings, she gave me shiny plates. Is it any surprise we ended up mates?
I like that my collection is growing.
I like that the wholesome homemade food that I make lives on my schmancy plates before it is unceremoniously devoured.
I like that I won’t spend more than £1 on a plate, most are from dowdy charity shops, and every single one makes me happy to for a different reason.
Mostly I like that every time I open my cupboard I have a reason to smile.
Que Sera Sara? 
ancestors = smiling @ this: knowing you can let them go and start afresh anytime = priceless
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