Seeing Is Remembering
Dishware that reflects the nostalgic comfort of home.
Story by Faith Owens
I grew up in Mansfield, a Rust Belt city in north-central Ohio best known as the filming location for the 1994 movie “The Shawshank Redemption.” I was raised in a historic neighborhood outside of the city, where some of my most vivid childhood memories take place.
Growing up, my family and I ate primarily home-cooked dinners in our quaint 1935 home. The front door was painted the same orange as the dining room — a deep, hearty orange that made you feel surrounded by warmth even on the coldest evening.
Although I may not remember exactly what my family ate or what conversations we had at the dinner table, I know for certain that Fiestaware dishes were present at every single meal.
For as long as I can remember, Fiestaware has been in my life. Many of my early memories are of me setting the dinner table, gingerly placing the dishware, and intentionally mixing and matching the rich tones. After all, Dad says Fiestaware is best enjoyed when no two colors are present at the same placemat.
Our cabinets look like something out of an advertisement — plates, bowls and mugs of every shape and color neatly organized as if in a catalog. We also have special pieces such as pitchers, platters and gravy boats that are brought out only on occasions like holidays and anniversaries.
In my mind, certain holidays needed to have certain colored Fiestaware accompanied with it. For example, Thanksgiving deserved burnt orange, maroon and dandelion yellow pieces. During Christmas, cooler colors such as deep blues and reds were on the table.
I have lived on the opposite side of the country from my home in Ohio for more than four years now, and Fiestaware is no longer present in my everyday life. However, if I happen to see it, I am overcome with incredible nostalgia that has me longing for home.
It’s as if I’m reminded of a past that I will never experience again. It is so ingrained in my being that I can still feel the sleek, adequately weighted plates in my hand and how chilly they would feel after being in the cupboard in the middle of an Ohio winter.
My sister and I were raised to be particularly careful when handling the dishware, and I can only remember two times when something was broken. I don’t recall exactly how or when they happened or if anyone got in trouble, but one of our two butter dishes had its lid broken when the handle snapped off. We never got rid of it — we simply used it less often.
Today, if I see Fiestaware outside of the context of my home in Ohio, I feel as if the dishes are my own.
I always feel giddy and must point out to whoever I am with that my family also uses Fiestaware. I tell them about the colors and shapes of the pieces we own.
Ohio winters are especially bitter and cold, as this is a characteristic of the Midwest’s extreme seasons. Many evenings, I’d play outside with neighborhood friends in the snow that stood well above my height. Once my fingers and toes lost feeling and my cheeks burned from a long day’s frigid wind, I would stagger inside, plump from the many layers of clothing and snow gear.
My mom would offer me my favorite winter treat — peppermint hot chocolate made with milk on the stovetop. I would have multiple servings out of a Fiestaware mug, the handle uncomfortably round and small even for a child’s fingers. I could feel my hands thaw against the hot ceramic and the hot chocolate pooling around my upper lip as I sipped.
Our lives are so uniquely special because of the simple treasures that mean so much to us individually. For one person, it’s their late grandmother’s handwriting that takes them back to another time. For another person, it’s the smell of eucalyptus that their mother used to soothe them when stressed. An object as simple as a plate can remind someone of past peace and reminiscence.
Growth can be difficult and painful, but it can help us appreciate the small things in life, like the dishware that I used my entire life until it was time to start a new chapter.