Mom’s Radish Cups

 I wrote a post or two ago about the Swedish death cleanse. As I’m sorting through cabinets, upper shelves, the office closet I’m making piles. There are as many piles as objects. Some are going straight to the garbage, while some can go anonymously to Salvation Army. Some I might try to sell or re-gift. There is a pile just called give-away—but then I wonder: Who wants my junk?

Most of my friends are in the throes of doing the same thing. All those CDs, DVDs technology has erased the need for them. Millennials like the idea of records, but I gave away those long ago. All my Christmas ornaments are not appreciated as 1) my kid has money and an Amazon Prime account and will get her own and 2) besides she doesn’t celebrate a religious Christmas, so no angels, babe in a manger etc. It seems my treasures are someone else’s burden; they don’t want them either.

And, then, there are Mom’s radish cups.

The problem with these is that no one has the foggiest idea of what they are or what to do with them. They are made of cut crystal and used to sit on the dining room table (on a table cloth!) with salt. Mom would cut up some radishes into fancy shapes (who had the time! Back then she even ironed pillowcases!) like a rose and set them up on a display platter (who got that when they cleaned out the house?) and you’d take one during the appetizer course and dip it in the salt and eat it.

The whole thing today seems anachronistic, like some Victorian Darwinian Dickinsesque exercise in civility.

So I’ll hang onto my radish things.