In Good Company
I have exactly twenty-two dish towels.
I only know this because today is all about the kitchen. I’ll be in it for several hours, restocking a few of our granola flavors for the market and in the flurry of gathering all the necessary supplies, I couldn’t resist a bit of tidying up. I opened the drawer of the Hoosier-style hutch where they live (alongside a stack of handmade cloth napkins) and touched each one, counting as I went.
Of these twenty-two dish towels, I purchased only five; the rest were given to me by dear friends and sisters or inherited from my mom when the family home was sorted and emptied of its tangible memories. We use each and every one of them at some point in the calendar’s unfolding. Small as our house is, the kitchen is rather roomy, second only in square footage to the living room, and there are strategic places to hang these towels after wiping down the long countertop and antique wooden kitchen table. Our stove can hold three of them from its oven door handle, as long as they’re folded lengthwise in thirds. So far, the kittens have resisted the temptation of playing with these dangling soft toys, distracted instead by food and each other’s tails. A damp one (towel, not kitten) drapes nicely over the stand mixer to the right of the sink to dry.
It’s gently surprising, in a comforting sort of way, how their presence cheers me. Laundry days are that much brighter for their presence among the line-dried pile waiting to be folded, because I remember the occasion that brought them into our home, the women friends who carefully selected each one before wrapping them up and handing them over as a thank you present for that evening’s dinner invitation. They sport mostly bunnies and bees, chickens and sunflowers in various designs from vintage to contemporary, and the holiday collection…well, those rich blue, burgundy and gold colors make a humble space look extraordinary any day of the year (I’m not a stickler for seasonal decorating; the ones with winter scenes of deer and snow-covered trees are as welcome in August as in the weeks leading up to Christmas). Function and decoration are the dish towel’s two-handed contribution to our daily rhythm and if you asked, I could tell the story behind each one.
What catches me today, though, are the feelings of warmth and appreciation for the women who gave them to me. When I hang the one Jen gave me that reads “Find the place that fills your heart and nurtures your soul, settle in and you’re home!“, I think of her baking prowess and creativity for her girls’ birthday cakes and how many other love-filled meals we’ve eaten at their table. My sister, Peggy, found a set that perfectly captures the vibe of our house in wintertime—a simple red clapboard house embroidered near the hem while snow falls softly around it, represented as a postage stamp. Peggy is all about hospitality and one glance at these towels puts me right in her generous presence. Jackie and I used to haunt antique stores together, so the ones that look like old feed sacks must have caught her eye at the Amish hardware store up north where she lives. The black outline of a rabbit rests atop a slogan for flour against a primitive tan background and it charms me every time I see it. My sister, Jane, brought us whimsical bees stitched on the border of a cream-colored towel whose texture is honeycombed. I know she wouldn’t mind that this towel has been loved through more than a few pasta dinners, as evidenced by the slight pinkish tinge to one of the bee’s wings after I hastily dabbed some tomato sauce splatters from the stovetop. We keep using it because we like bees and we love Jane. Patrick’s late aunt Gracie hand-embroidered sweet begonias on a set that she gave him at her ninetieth birthday party. Those will never see pasta sauce, I can assure you, but they do come out when the kitchen is all clean and begging for those bright yellows and greens as a finishing touch.
Of course, none of them match, not in theme or colors, and that’s the beauty of such a collection. Our days are an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of events and moods that would quickly outstrip the blandness of a monochromatic stack of pure functionality. We dress our kitchen accordingly, randomly and with memories that keep bringing us joy, wash after wash. But today, even more wonderful than all that, I will get to bake with Jen and Peggy and Jackie and Jane just a hand’s reach away, cheering me on as I measure, chop and stir, and Aunt Gracie overseeing it all in unblemished splendor.
I am surrounded by women who know what our kitchen means to me and it feels good.
