As far as kitchenware goes, Patty and I don't do much in the way of matched sets of eating-stuff. The silverware drawer is the best example . . . probably 40 forks and there are a couple that match, but you'd havta do some serious digging to make it happen. It's certain that no two coffee mugs match. I think we like it that way, or maybe that's my excuse for being such a cheap bastard. But it's strangely satisfying to plow through the mismatched inventory of bowls/spoons/knives/or whatever to find your very fave or maybe the one that soothes your mind on a particular day.
So yep, that's a long intro to another coffee cup post. Not the first, and no clue as to whether it will or won't be the last.
I bought this mug at a yard sale. I thought it was insanely cool and would just make such a splash in our cupboard . . .
Come to find out, it creeps me way the hell out. I open the cupboard some mornings and look at the damn thing and I have to choke back the erps, let alone have any desire for the taste of joe. I totally cannot explain it. I think maybe it's just simply that Disney and Haight-Ashbury can't coexist in my morning ritual.
Except that part of me still loves that mug.
So I've been cleaning up my shop and getting ready for rack-building season. And tonight it struck me that maybe instead of reacting and impulsively destroying what haunts me, I could maybe breathe deep and figure out how to put it to good use in the shop. I don't want my lips on it ever again, but maybe this will work out and if not, you can damn well expect another post offering this sinister piece of ceramic to the next unwitting victim.