‘Tis a sad day. One of my vintage Tupperware cup finally cracked. 😦
It may seem silly to pine over a cracked cup from the late 70s. Therefore, lemme give some background on why this is so sad to me: I used to use these cups all the time in my younger years.
I remember sneaking drinks of my grandma’s coffee, which was really just sugary milk with a hint of Folgers. (She shoulda made Grandmabucks, charged $6 per cup and made a killing, but alas I digress.)
I remember dunking Pan Dulce on Pan Tuesday at my Uncle Enrique’s house.
I remember my mom took soda to work in one of these cups with the lid on. I got punished because she thought I snuck a drink and didn’t close it right when we deduced it was actually the carbonation that popped the top.
My best friend/best man/best cousin would eat milk and cookies out of these cups.
On 9/11, I went home to my folks house and ate menudo while drinking milk out of one of these cups. 11 days later, I married Alison and that 9/11 meal is the last memory of “home” not being where she was.
Growing up, I knew just the right amount of Tang to water ratio per one of these bad boys. My friends and I would drink Tang while my dad would say, “Good friends, good Tang. It doesn’t get any better!”
I don’t have pictures of these moments around my current house. To be honest, I don’t have any pictures of my younger years in the house. I just have these cups that I see every time I need to get a drink for a meal. When I do, one of these memories will rush back and take me back to simpler times when there was no stress of having to work to support a large family. A time when I could (and I used to) literally write stories all day long or draw pictures or read a book in my jammies. (At least, I still get to stay in my jammies all day! LOL)
I know, I know, it’s just a cup, but its not what’s in the vessel that was important to me, but rather what the vessel reminded me of. So if I replace it with something new and fancy, that vessel will fail at the job this vessel excelled at…reminding me of who I am and where I come from.
We’re from the ghetto. There’s no silver to be passed down, no fine china. Instead, we fight over grandma’s tupperware and hand out single pieces of her cheap flatware set, not because they’re materially worth much, but because the meals she made for us and the love that went into those meals all come back with that cheap, bendy fork with the long prongs and the tupperware cups she would share her drinks from.