I hate those stacked coffee cup things. The ones that come in their own little wire holder, making it so that you slide each up out like its a ceramic little pringle. Who decided that getting a cup for coffee had to be even more difficult? When I see them for sale on second-hand groups and in thrift stores, there is always one missing. Not two because then the whole thing would look empty and sad looking and thrift stores deserve better than empty and sad.
That one cup was probably the only one the previous owner ever used. Figuring that they have been sitting there next to the Mr. Coffee and it has to be washed and then completely dry before being set on top of the waiting stack in its clever little wire holder. This added extra step was maybe the downfall of the cup. Maybe if the previous owner had had more people using the cups. If only the sound of thundering feet would come down the stairs and eager hands would be emptying the wire holder for their own specific cup. Would the set have been color-coded? A whacky phrased that is spelled out on each cup?
Even better, if the wire cup holder was brought out on special occasions only. A friend would knock on the small panes that sit in the grid of the front door, leaving a fading knuckle mark. Trish would take the good stool at the counter, crossing long legs at ankles. Would that cup holder and it’s ridiculously stout cups be fetched from the pantry? If you have enough space to entertain a group of friends, you probably have enough space for a pantry.
That stack of cups is a relic leftover from the grand-ol’ age of kitchen gadgets and hostess serving-ware. Where did they store their many-tiered snack trays and crystal cake covers? Now, cabinets hold an odd assortment of coffee mugs. Shoved at you during birthdays and calling to you from shelves with phrases leftover from the ’80s.
I would like to pull my mugs out for you. I would like to tell you the story of each one. Of Trish and her long legs and how this one has a little chip but it’s fine because it has Garfield on it and who in their right mind would leave a Garfield cup at the thrift store? I would pour a coffee for you and leave the burner on until it fused to the bottom of the glass pot. My serving wares are the plates I eat on and a small graduated set of bowls that I eat rice and chicken out of.
Second-hand serve ware optimistically sits on the shelves. Next to the collection of dirty, wicker baskets and always in the same aisle as the flu-covered stuffed animals. “Who buys these things?” I ask as I re-walk the aisle for the third time. Maybe this time they have put out a few new things. I’m drawn to the burnt orange, yellow, and brown of a thermos set with a two-cup attachment. I am mocked by heavy, silver looking serving trays. I cannot find a practical nor creative use for them and in those two human qualities, I am failing.
I want to be adopted into a family that had special cups for coffee. Not those mugs. No, not those either. The ones in the thing. The THING. Aligning objects with place, with moments. Maybe I’ll rent a china cabinet for my next party. I’ll point out the special things, the events that they are for, and who is allowed to eat off of which plate. I will have some plates displayed on those little holders, of course. I want a moth-eaten table cloth. I want gingham curtains. I want a stupid coffee cup holder thing with the one cup missing. I want to send for a handyperson to come and install large kitchen counters and a door with glass panes that I can see out of. Maybe they can line the walk with flowers while they are at it.
