Stacking.

I was cleaning out my kitchen cupboards today. We are in the process of renovating the kitchen. Dishware, piles and piles of them stacked on top of each other, none really matching nor fitting because they are so odd and different.


As a kid, I was very envious when I went to other homes and the hostesses pull out the matching plates. I always wished that we had the kind of household where the glasses match the salad bowl. I hated seeing the meals I slaved for hours for being served in plastic rice bowls.


In the last couple of years, when I have moved to a new place I would buy an entire new set of coordinating wares to fit my aesthetic needs. Pieces that I pick up here and there, trying to make a matching set for when I get a chance to host.


And then at the end of every leasing cycle, I would bring them all home. One by one, they get go through a cycle of "survivals of the fittest." What now is left, are the best of them. Mixed and matched, none really stacking on top of each other. As a group, they would not form a beautiful table setting like the ones in Bon Apetit. Individually, each is like a portal down memory lane.  


A square red one with little birds on them; I made stuffed tomatoes lunch during fall break with Tina in 2007. A plastic green plate that I shared garlic steak with my cousin during her first year in St. Louis while watching TLC. Then the small blue rimmed rice ceramic bowls that I cooked vegetarian soup for my grandmother's alter in middle school.

Cluttersome and random as they are. I can't stop adding to them. I can't bear to break or toss a single one out. Therefore, they stay on my counter. They're my stack.