Have you ever explored your glassware?
Apologies for that clumsy term “glassware.” Humans’ irresistibly taxonomic impulse anoints “glassware” the family of which drinkware, beverageware, tumblers, stemware, and the capacious “other” are the genuses (if I’ve got this right) and coffee cup, mug, snifter, juice glass, berkemeyer, tankard, chalice, margarita glass a few of the endlessly proliferous species. And that’s just in English. There are seven thousand or so other human languages on earth, though I doubt there are champagne coupes in Zulu. (Reader advisory: this last assumption may constitute ignorant racism, another stubborn human condition.)
I’d never much noticed our glassware till now, though I handle it daily. As chief cook and bottlewasher in Jane’s and my establishment, I commence my day unloading the dishwasher while the coffee boils and Henry breakfasts. From dawn to dark I fill receptables of various shapes with liquids of various flavors, potency and calidity (sorry, I had to, it means warmth), and before bedtime, rinse the uncomplaining containers and arrange them for their dishwasher dousing. I know where each glass or cup “belongs” on our shelves and grump if any’s “misplaced,” though how a visitor could anticipate my organizational system is anybody’s guess.
If proximity produced intimacy, I and our glassware would be thick as thieves, but we’re not. Our glasses are utensils, not animate. If one breaks, to hell with it, there are more where that came from. About certain dishes, with memories, I feel differently. To crack one of the pretty plates Jane and purchased in Assisi, with our names baked into their backs, would gloom me for days – thus must we all!
Need for a missive topic attracted my attention to our glassware. Enough politics for now, even enough Kamala (though I’m warming into a big fan). Henry invariably has something to say, but his ridicule can grate. (The nerve of a dependent observing his boss de haut en bas!) A Jane mash note is always an option but even that (hard to believe) can be overdone. Ditto, moony walks in nature – or philosophizing – or forays into poems.
Our glassware recalls how human impatience incessantly ramifies. We begin with a cup – or maybe cupped palms, to quaff from a stream. We devise different sorts of receptacles for different purposes out of different materials with different designs. Naturally we need distinct glasses for red and white wine – and water – and champagne – and brandy – and port – and beer – and sake – and… Plus looks for various seasons and grades of hospitality. (I resent our “fancy” glasses because they’re harder to clean and break on a whim.) Our glasses reflect us – our status, aesthetics, aspirations, where we fit on earth. (Did Thoreau need more than a single cup? I must look it up.)
The Web remembers things folks have said about glassware. It’s likely to recall these words once they’re dispatched, for it never forgets. “You can’t get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to suit me,” said C.S. Lewis. “Do not drink the third glass, which thou canst not tame, when once it is within thee,” said George Herbert. “If I asked for a cup of coffee, someone would search for the double meaning,” said Mae West, bless her. “The trouble with jogging is that the ice falls out of your glass,” joked comedian Martin Mull. Each remark offers a new route for curiosity to amble.
The glory of consciousness is the endless abundance of existence if you pay attention. I’m repeating myself, I realize, but it’s worth repeating. Wondering makes the world a wonder-world free of charge.