By Eilene Lyon
“Why do you keep using that old measuring cup?” asked my co-doggy parent (aka husband, Pat). “It’s cloudy and chipped, and we have this nice one.”
“I can’t give you an answer that would satisfy you,” I replied.
So why do I keep using the ugly, old 2-cup measure? I don’t really recall when I acquired it. Did it used to belong to my mom? Or did I buy it after I left home and got my own apartment? Even if I didn’t get it from Mom, it looks just like the one she used to have.
It doesn’t make any sense to be sentimental about a kitchen implement my mother used once upon a time. She was a terrible cook. (A crime to which she will readily confess.)
Perhaps my grandmothers had measuring cups identical to this old one? (Now, grandmas, they knew how to cook, right?)
Actually, I was the one who enjoyed learning to bake when I was a teenager. Maybe I’m just wistful about all those pies, cookies and breads I turned out back in the day.
(I rarely bake sweets anymore – don’t need the sugar – and I quit baking bread after that second-degree burn I gave myself.)
I do still occasionally use a recipe handed down from my grandmothers, via my mom (see sausage stuffing recipe below). I like recreating the flavors from my childhood. But I’m just not that emotionally attached to things like measuring cups.
When it comes down to it, I like the way the old cup fits my hand, and it actually doesn’t hold as much as the newer one. The old one measures out the perfect amount of fruit for my morning smoothies. The new one would encourage over-consumption. And we sure wouldn’t want that now, would we?
Myricopia 
I am that way about some old kitchen items, too. Even a 50 year old jar of cinnamon converted to cinnamon sugar.
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I love this! I have gotten so attached to the old kitchen utensils (particularly mixing bowls, measuring cups and spoons) that I grew up using. I was devastated when my mom threw out the mixing bowls without telling me.
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We are such creatures of habit! Thanks for reading.
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We are indeed! Thank you for sharing!
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My late Dad gave me a second-hand, bone-handled carving fork when I got my first flat. I mentioned it to my mum a few years ago and she told me that it belonged to his mother who died before I was born. Now it’s extra special (it’s still in use but not allowed in the dishwasher.)
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I think there’s something about utensils and tools that give us a very tactile connection to our ancestors. And maybe we just like the practicality, too! I think things were made a better quality, made to last, in earlier generations.
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