The story goes that the ginourmous old bowl sitting on our dining room table was shipped home by my maternal Grandfather Nicholas, my namesake. He had traveled by train from New York to California and back, about a hundred or so years ago. The bowl was a gift to my Gran (photo in post of March 2nd, "3 1/2 Italians..."), with whom it resided until his death, after which she and it moved in with my family. Here was a Grand Lady who could have educated Gloria Steinem about the liberation of women, eons before the phrase "Women's Lib" was coined. She was to be my roommate, as I grew up. Trust me when I say that I never longed for privacy; she was an enormously loving, inspirational role model in my life. Consider the era when I say that Gran took me, my brother and cousins to rodeos at Madison Square Garden, holiday shows at Radio City, and by train to visit relatives in Ohio and Florida...that is one long train ride and a story for another day. I digress; back to the bowl:
My Mom gifted the big old bowl to me decades ago. It occurs to me that this connection has something to do with my strong affinity for old bowls. If only they could speak. It's no surprise that when I whip up a double batch of chocolate chip cookies, I tend to choose another big old bowl over my sophisticated, powerful electric mixer, with its cold stainless vessel. There's just something about a battered (no pun intended!) stoneware bowl that makes the cookies turn out better. It must be all the lovin' that has been stirred into its depths.
Finding myself in the business of buying and selling antiques, I'm always excited when "the hunt" produces a Banded Yellow Ware Bowl....especially a #12 in size! With all its crazing, hairlines, bumps and bruises, herein lies a treasure. My Gran would be pleased.
