The only measuring cup my mother ever owned, at least until both of her children were out of college and on their own, was a warped tin cup with quarter measures on one side and tic marks for third measures on the other. That’s all she ever needed. It is absolutely the only thing I ever saw her use.
It’s not that she couldn’t afford to buy another cup, or even a set of cups, it was just not necessary. The simplicity of it all is mind boggling.
On the other hand, I’ve opened my kitchen cabinet more than once to an avalanche of cups of various measures and designs. There’s the set of measuring cups where each resembles a cat with feet sprouting from the bottom. The curved tail is the handle. There’s the set of metal handled cups, and even the collection of orange Tupperware. Some sizes are missing from each set, but collectively, I have every single measure from 1/4 to a full cup. I suppose that’s all I’ll ever need, although why just one cup isn’t enough, I really don’t know, now that I think about it.
I might argue that it’s difficult to measure such things as shortening in a single cup, but my mom had that covered, too, thanks to her Magnolia Chain education at Mississippi State College for Women. If the shortening measure happened to be ¼ cup, for example, just fill the little tin cup ¾ full of water and then plop the shortening into the water until the water line hits the one cup mark. She put her college education and math skills to very practical use in her kitchen, applying the theory of water displacement like a pro while ending up with a measuring cup that needed very little cleaning since the shortening was never smushed down to whatever measure was necessary.
On the other hand, I smush shortening down into whatever measure is necessary in whichever of my 48 measuring cups is appropriate. But then, I have a dishwasher.
Her most used measuring spoon was a tin tablespoon that had at one time been part of a set, but for as long as I was acquainted with it, had been broken at the handle so that only the spoon remained. It always rested in the silverware drawer, conspicuous in its lack of handle so it was always easy to find. Surely, she had other measuring spoons, but for the life of me, that’s the only one I remember.
There were four members of my family, so we had four plates and four bowls. A few were chipped but definitely usable. Then the Spur station started giving china place settings for gas fill-ups, which is when our inventory expanded. One rolling pin was all she needed and all she ever had. For as long as an item would last, that’s how long she would keep it without replacement.
And the thing is, she didn’t need to be that frugal as my parents could well afford more than one measuring cup and one rolling pin. But how many rolling pins could you use at one time? And what was the purpose of duplicates of anything?
That question is far too simple for a simple answer.
I’m not sure where I was during my growing-up years, but I’m thinking I should have paid more attention. I had one Barbie doll and one Francie, although I always wanted a Skipper. I did learn that it’s OK to want something and not get it. All of their clothes were stuffed into a well-worn red cardboard box that had once housed a coffee percolator. And all of that fit underneath my bed for easy access.
On the other hand, my daughters were charged with two plastic totes full of Barbie dolls and accessories and a huge pink Barbie townhome with a spiral staircase that definitely wouldn’t fit underneath a bed.
My Barbie had long brown hair with blue eyes and a green headband and legs that cracked at the knees when you bent them. Her name was Barbie, because there was only one. In my daughters’ Barbie totes rest far too many dolls to remember the names for. And no one doll is super special.
I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere—probably that less choice and more simplicity is a good thing. My mom knew that without knowing it. She had what she needed and she used what she had and she was happy. Simple.
I may not have paid attention to a lot of things growing up, but I’m a lot wiser now. My daughter got the idea of monogramming a canvas Land’s End tote with a mantra that meant something to her. She chose “Always Tired,” which I’m not sure I’d be especially proud of but most likely fits most thirty-somethings who are blessed—or cursed—with too much to own and too much to do. Mine, on the other hand, would be “Close Enough” as most things are out of my control and while I might give it my best shot, most of the time I have to settle for just close enough.
And that’s OK. That’s what the wisdom of a longer life will do for you. Well, that and a few less measuring cups.
