On the road to adulthood there are many things that make you feel like a bona fide grown-up. Paying bills on time, setting an alarm clock, having a full pantry and, the latest for me: owning a serious set of china. As my mother-in-law and I gingerly packed an inherited set of dishes into sturdy boxes for the trip from Washington DC to Chicago this past summer, the patriarch of the mister’s family sternly told us that we had better put the tableware to use. And we haven’t.
I’m terrified to handle these dishes. Eat a meal off of them? Are you kidding me? It’s one thing to break a plate picked up at the thrift for sixty-five cents and quite another to shatter a serving platter tied to celebratory occasions with your husband’s great-great-great Aunt Ruby.
Do you own china? Where did it come from? Do you use it on a regular basis? How many plates have you broken? If at least one commenter has used their family’s china and not broken anything, I swear I’ll gather up the nerve to serve breakfast– even if it’s just scones from Milk & Honey— on these beauties tomorrow morning. Celebrating the fact that it’s Saturday is as good a reason as any, right?