I have always had a weakness for esoteric serving ware. I don’t yet own a silver asparagus shovel, nor do I own ice cream forks. I’ve never mastered the art of cooking asparagus in a way that would make me want to bring attention to it, and I have no idea why one would need tines to take a bite of ice cream.

Other oddballs on my wish list are toast racks, muffineers, and cruet stands. Something about the lifestyle that they suggest appeals to me, even though it is a lifestyle out of sync with my own. 

First of all, in the eternal battle of the bulge, I don’t eat muffins for breakfast, much less use a silver shaker to sprinkle extra powdered sugar on them. Even if I could possibly cram them into my corset bound self.

I certainly don’t need so much oil and vinegar, or mustard that I need full, cut-glass bottles of them on my table. After all, that shiny stand of bottles would take up the room needed on the counter where we eat most of our meals.

I also don’t eat toast, much less toast made in bulk, set out in a rack to cool so that I can eat it cold once it has made its way from the kitchens. I could use it for napkins to make it slightly more practical, but then it would be a napkin rack, wouldn’t it? Somehow all that practicality doesn’t matter. The level of ridiculousness in using such outdated pieces is the essence of their charm. The promise of that life is what crams my cupboards with stuff.  

Perhaps I would eat a muffin for breakfast if I was sitting at table that has a tablecloth and a delicate cup for my coffee, and the shining silver and sparkling glass reflect the morning sun. No doubt that sun is filtered by trees, rather than buildings. The image of a life where breakfast isn’t a rushed bowl of cereal or some sawdust bar in a plastic wrapper, gobbled down before bundling everyone out the door is what is more appealing than the muffin, be it ever so warm from the kitchen.

And that lovely, lovely cruet stand on the dinner table. Throwing off glints of candlelight from the corner of my graciously laid table. Eloquent and well-dressed friends are seated in my dining room, as we leisurely make our way through a thoughtfully prepared meal. “Why yes, dear Frederick, I can pass the mustard. Cook made it fresh this afternoon.” A far cry from some sticky ketchup bottle on the table.

The essential craving in the end is not for sterling toast racks, or damask tablecloths, or even homemade condiments. We all wish for time to take a breath and appreciate well-cooked food, good friends, and the leisure to enjoy it. So, even though I will never have a cook, or maybe even a cruet stand, I can still plan a meal, invite those friends, and we can pause for a toast to good time spent together, and then pass that mustard down the table.