As I nestled into my newly downsized life this year, I found it isn't necessarily simple to live simply.
The purging of possessions from 3,100 to 950 square feet continues to be, at times, a full-contact sport. Not much can come in without something going out. But I've learned to hone in on what matters and, frankly, not a whole lot of it does.
So out the door I've carried many a perfectly good item I only wish I had my money back from acquiring. What remains is a hodgepodge of belongings with little to no intrinsic value to anyone but me. I see a home with soul, filled with pieces that have a story, that are useful and that evoke a memory that makes me smile or wistfully fall in love all over again.
Like one little green glass dish in my kitchen.
It's ugly. Truly, it isn't aesthetically pleasing in the least. You wouldn't pay a buck fifty for it at a yard sale. It has a chigger chip on the rim and irregular wavy streaks throughout the glass, and its shallow size makes it impractical for much of anything. But I kept it and, Lord willing, I always will.
For 364 days of the year, from the early 1970s onward, that glass dish rested on a shelf way in the back of a top cabinet in the tiny kitchen of the house where I grew up.
Now, when I say the kitchen was tiny, I mean just that. The avocado and burnt orange linoleum floor was about 6 feet by 8 feet. I could stand in the middle of the kitchen and touch the faux marbled white Formica countertops on each side, what few countertops there were once you accounted for the space taken by the matching avocado refrigerator and hooded range.
But one day a year, while the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade called to me from our Zenith console television in the living room, my mama would have me clamber up on the countertop and dig into the back of that cabinet for one particular green glass dish.
And it would be my job to open a can of gelatinous, flavorless cranberry sauce and dump it into that dish.
In my mama's mind, it was the only dish that cranberry sauce could be served from, and it was the only job I could be trusted with in the kitchen, whether I was 4 years old or 40.
She might very well have been right about each.
You see, I come from a long line of rotund ladies.
Like Erma Bombeck once quipped, I too come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage.
Thankfully, I appear to have taken after the milk man and have a fairly slender build. But when my mother and grandmother would get in our kitchen, it was like bumper bottoms in there. There was simply no room for me. So I had my one job in the kitchen, then I would go clean the rest of the house while they did the cooking.
Alas, I never learned to cook. My culinary skills are legendary. At potlucks, I'm asked to bring paper products. Please. Only bring paper products.
But my beloved bevy of gal pals and I set off on a culinary course of adventure this past week in Albuquerque, N.M., for a cooking class in hopes of changing my tide. What a time! We laughed until our cheeks hurt while sharing stories and a few glasses of wine, growing closer than ever. It was all fun and games until ...
Class started.
The professional chef went around the room, getting to know his class. With each passing question, it became clear. There were 17 cooks who came to a cooking class to learn more about Southwestern cuisine, and one chick who didn't know how to boil water.
Undaunted, I volunteered to assist in the demonstrations and most of my classmates were very supportive. Only the eldest lady of the group suggested my sticking to my day job when I accidentally triggered a chain of events leading to a fairly showy fire directly behind the chef's back.
But I tried. I learned. And had a wonderful time in the process.
This year, I'm thankful that I intend to take one little green glass dish filled with my own fresh cranberry relish to share Thanksgiving with Southern Gent and his family. Mama would be proud.
But I'll bring paper plates and napkins, too, just to be safe.
Commentary on 11/13/2014