Updated: November 4, 2020
Originally Published: July 18, 2015
I am not my mother. Or am I? As I entered my 40s, a realization dawned on me that I had transformed into my mother in many ways. This epiphany struck while I was navigating a flea market in West Tennessee. It hit me all at once, prompting me to mentally list the ways in which I was distinctly different from her. But then I remembered—laundry… and I had to add that to the list too.
While inspecting a blue willow plate for imperfections, I felt a wave of nostalgia. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, “What in the world do I need with another set of dishes?” I recalled the countless times she and my grandmother collected dishware, all the while lamenting their lack of storage space. Here I was, holding a blue willow plate and devising my own plan to squeeze it onto a shelf already brimming with mismatched Mikasa and Fiesta plates alongside faded Chuck E. Cheese cups. Just like my mother, I bought the plate and tucked it away.
Memories of my mother’s enthusiasm for antiques flooded back. I had spent years by her side, marveling at Hoosier cabinets (I even knew the term without needing to consult Google) and being captivated by vintage soap bars and the glint of kerosene lamps. Now, I found myself immersed in the treasure trove of antiques on the backroads of West Tennessee.
My thoughts raced—what adorned my walls? How much affection did I have for an imperfectly painted tray? It dawned on me that I had fully embraced the world of antiquing. I had eagerly held onto it, unwilling to release my grip on the past. My list of realizations continued to grow.
Amid this self-discovery, I caught sight of my hands. No, I truly observed them. They mirrored my mother’s hands—those hands that wiped the dinner table clean or folded laundry in the La-Z-Boy after a long day gardening with her mother. From the long fingers to the prominent knuckles and slender wrists, they were unmistakably hers, now passed down to me.
As my mind spiraled, the plate led to my hands, which in turn led to baking—and baking led to cookies. My mother’s chocolate chip cookies were legendary. While I may not have inherited her mastery, my kids often plead for mine at 9:30 p.m. on school nights after I’ve navigated the challenges of third-grade homework, including the Common Core curriculum, and the occasional mishap. They beg for those cookies, and I can’t deny that my mother’s spirit shines through in those moments.
As I slid warm, gooey cookies off the AirBake sheet and onto wax paper, I felt a sense of fulfillment. The aroma of brown sugar and chocolate wafted through the house, making it all worthwhile, even if it meant waking up to a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. My mother baked for my sister and me, and now I found joy in doing the same for my children.
When I paid for the blue willow plate, I felt a twinge of nostalgia. I turned to leave and spotted a Hoosier cabinet in the first booth to the right—a delightful surprise I had missed before. Its curves and color made me feel giddy. But where was that list again?
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Summary:
This reflective piece explores the author’s realization of how she has inherited traits and habits from her mother, particularly in the realms of collecting antiques and baking. Through the act of purchasing a blue willow plate, she reflects on her familial connections and the joy of passing down traditions to her own children.