Reunited (and it feels so good)!

There are numerous good reasons to enjoy vintage kitchenware.  There's the knowledge that you're re-purposing and recycling items discarded before their useful lifetime and the understanding that your money is filtering through the economy on a different, sometimes even charitable, level.  There's the daydreams you can easily get whisked off to thinking of the former meals your skillet has cooked or dish has prepared.  And the thrill of the hunt, for sure.  But I get the most extreme pleasure when I piece back together a long torn apart set.

Sometimes while anthropomorphizing my dishes, I think about how lonely a misplaced bowl is separated from its manufactured brethren.  I just want to swoop in and say, "Ah ha!  I have found you!  Let me return you to your kinfolk."  And sometimes I get to.

When it comes to glassware, sets of three are always hard to think about.  I can't help but wonder what awful fate the fourth succumbed to.  Did it break?  Maybe it was lost in a move?  A while back I'd found three colorful automobile glasses: red, turquoise and yellow.  They were bright and cheerful, and scattered throughout an unmanned flea market booth about to close.  Lo and behold if I didn't spot the green one months later and miles away.

Big news too that I also finally completed my set of 1940s Pyrex Primary Bowls with the old elevated foot.  I suppose the italicization goes a bit far - I mean I haven't been looking that long.  But anyhow, my very first set back together at last:

 

When it comes to reuniting sets, I think it is part luck and part patience (and honestly, I think more of the latter).  I'd known of a yellow #404 for a while, but wasn't entirely pleased with either the condition or the price.  I'd walk by it thinking, "There you are, the last piece needed to complete this set" but had managed, for weeks, to pass it by.  Finally I gave in to temptation and splurged on the bowl, reckoning it's a decently elusive find what with the limited production and age and who only knew when I'd see another one.  So I bought it.  And my jubilation and rationalization lasted all of something like three hours until at the next place we stopped, I found another one - reasonably priced, and in better shape (so yes, I rescued that one too.  I know, I can't help myself - luckily that first one has already been re-homed to Japan so I can mark a tally in the win column for spreading the Pyrex wealth).

Just goes to show - patience always wins out.

Then you have lids.  Oh lids - you bane of my existence.  They say there is a lid for every pot but they don't tell you where this lid happens to be.  I broke my rule and purchased this Zodiac lid online, but seeing how happy he is (I think this casserole is a male, no?) back with his proper hat, I understand why rules are meant to be broken sometimes.

 

This little casserole didn't lose it's lid, but the one it had was all chipped and damaged.  Fortunately, not one but two lone lids were discovered a few days ago for a steal.  It's just one big family reunion going on over here!

So tell me, what's your happiest reunion tale? 

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"Orange" You Glad You Met Me

Last night I dreamt I stumbled across an entire collection of orange kitchenware. Seriously - that is what was flickering across my subconscious mind at around 3-4am. At some point, as I was loading up a cart with pumpkin colored pots and pans, carrot orange casseroles and flaming cast-iron, I thought to my dream-self, "Just because it's all the same color, doesn't mean you have to have it if it's not something you want."

Naturally, when I woke up this morning I wondered what it meant. What deep and mysterious truths and occurrences did this dream foreshadow? If I go out thrifting today will I actually run-across the ruddy-colored compatriots of my turquoise motherlode?

Then I took a look around:

Turns out I have a lot of frickin' orange laying around the house. And that doesn't even include the awesome tangerine spring day-coat I snagged for half-off (!) at a vintage clothing-store the other day. The strange thing about all this, though, is that up until very recently orange was perhaps one of my least favorite colors. Right up there with pepto-bismal pink and princess purple (rendered exponentially hideous when used together). Orange things I liked included: oranges. pumpkins. cheddar. monarch butterflies. That, my friends, is not a very long list. And it certainly doesn't include snack bowls, and tea-towels, and coffee cups, canisters and clothing. What happened?!

It would be all too easy to say I have merely fallen victim to Pantone's Color of the Year, which is, in fact, a bright, terra-cotta-esque "tangerine tango." But that would imply I have the ability to keep up with trends, which a look inside my closest clearly indicates that I do not (unless navy blue, cream, and grey cardigans are coming back in fashion. Please please please!). No, I blame it on these:
Well, the top two anyway. We had discovered a new estate warehouse that offered online bid-auctions as well as in-person sales once monthly. So a cold, brisk winter morning we lined up outside the opening and as the door opened, I saw these. Can we say, "bee-line?" Both the flame pieces are Le Creuset, the sunny yellow is an early Descoware. All are in ridiculously good shape but the orange pieces looked brand new. Maaybe, they had been used once. Maybe. In fact, so new that I don't even think they qualify as vintage. But that's okay, because the reason I love vintage kitchenry as I do is because it is timeless.

It did give us slight pause as to what to do with them though, because they weren't suitable inventory for the Etsy shop and up until this point our kitchen has always been a shade of chartreuse, apple-green (always. Since the time I moved out of the college dorms and had a kitchen, and every kitchen we've had together since). Then of course, we added the turquoise/aqua blue because you don't look a gift-horse in the mouth and then complain about the color. Moot point anyway because green Le Creuset wasn't even offered in the early years.

I would really love to have some baking dishes though, and I'm positive I'll be holding my breath a long time waiting to locate those in original Paris Blue or affording to buy kiwi pieces retail.

So it has now been decided - our kitchen colors are turquoise/aqua blue, chartreuse/apple green and bright orange! Drum roll.....

What do you think?

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The Loneliest Number

Shortly after we decided that, oh my gosh, oh my goodness, oh my golly, relics of American domesticity were uh-mazingly interestingly and ever so useful to have around the house, we had to face the fact that thrifting alone wasn't going to cut it. Sure, every so often you hit the jackpot and come back with a casserole, maybe even a roasting pan if you're lucky (oh that reminds me - note to self: take a photo of your roasting pan), but those days can be far and few between, separated by numerous trips that end in disappointment. Better to go to the source: The Estate Sale.

To this day, I still find estate sales somewhat intimidating and/or uncomfortable events. They are a completely new scene to me and more often than not the folks hosting the sale are close relatives of the former owner. Nothing seems more awkward and insincere than, "My condolences on your loss. Um, okay I'm going to tromp back to your kitchen now. Would you take $2 for this?"

So imagine my surprise when we arrive bright and early at our first "we planned to be here" estate sale (yes, technically this came from an estate sale too, but it looked like a yard-sale at the time and the purveyor didn't even know the deceased) and run upon a mob of elbows-out, doorway shoving patrons clamoring over each other to get the goods. We had serious doubts about entering the fray.

But as soon as the door opened, I saw this sitting on the counter-top:

A perfect condition casserole with lid. Okay. Now here is where all of you get to go, "Are you kidding me?!?!" Because the other one was there too. It was $4 for the pair. And, get this, I didn't buy the second one because the lid had a chip in it. Yep. That's right. It actually had a lid. I must have been under some deluded notion that one never, ever, ever found lids all on their lonesome and without a glass topper it would be somehow "incomplete." And who needed a duplicate anyway? Pffph. So I walked right out with my one perfectly pretty piece and didn't think twice. Until I learned that it was the 1959 Buffet Twins promotional casserole set - oh that's right. Set. A pair. As in two. As in - the other one that I left behind.

Talk about kicking yourself. But I was (kinda still am) a novice. It was a rookie error. Now I have an entire box of miscellaneous lids that I will one day match to a base. I didn't know any better. Oh yeah, I passed up a Spring Blossom butter dish too. Won't be making those mistakes again.

I did find a few other things that have been happily re-homed across the country - a set of Harvest Gold Tupperware measuring spoons and a yellow Foley jar-opener - and a gift for my grandmother (an occupied Japan teacup/saucer) but nothing else as awe inspiring as that which I had walked away from.

Fortunately, the story doesn't end there. See, months later my fiance wanted to make amends for something that is completely irrelevant and, being the good man that he is, knew the best way to make an apology isn't with flowers (although I love those too) but with Pyrex. He had found the long-lost mate and brought it back so the two could be reunited. How romantic!

So there they are, back together. Stacked so nicely atop one another in the pantry.

I actually suspect that this is the original pair that I had seen together - that whomever found it at the sale after I so callously left it there simply replaced the lid, brought it to his or her booth and marked it up. And that's okay. Because in this case it was the thought not that counted - not the bargain.

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The Thrill of the Hunt

Before I became a "vintage kitchen goddess" (oh hush. I hear those poorly disguised snickers from the peanut gallery. Can almost hear your eyes roll too! But that is okay, let me get to my point) I spent a lot of time thinking about tourism, and the tourist in particular. And in any academic query of touristic motivations, you will eventually get drawn into a discussion on the hunt. Indeed, of the stereotypical "big game seeking" safari hat wearing, rifle toting sort, but also of the camera toting "perfect shot acquiring" documentarian as well. Seems there is something inherently thrilling to hear about the difficulty of catching something, to go questing for it, to catch it, and to bring back evidence as if to say, "Aha! Out of all the possible animals/photos/places/people/things in the world that one could possibly encounter, I distinguished with the aid of my brilliant perceptive skills, intuitive know-how and vast knowledge of worldly things that this was important to make note of." I mean that's really what game trophies and travel photographs are all about right? Physical evidence of something you saw, or did, or achieved that someone else aspires to do.

See I am a hunter of another sort - a treasure hunter; only my rubies and diamonds are Pyrex pretties and collectible cookware. And my open grassland savannah has been traded for the dusty, musty aisle-ways of thrift-stores and random piles of belongings that characterize the neighborhood yard-sale. This is my "wild." And sure, I could find these things for sale at "antique" malls (even though none of these pieces yet technically qualify as antique, don't get me started) and even online, but that would be akin to photographing an animal in a zoo, or (goodness forbid) a pet-store. Don't get me wrong: These outlets have their place! And certainly I am not one to eschew online resale as a matter of principle. But there is a certain je ne sais quoi that is lost when an element of certainty is introduced. The suspense, the anticipation, the long-awaited reward ... that is what makes collecting vintage kitchenware so exciting.

All this to say a part of me drags my feet posting because I understand that this entire endeavor is really about bragging writes (oh yes, that was intentional), and it can feel a little self-aggrandized to say, "Hey there! I found this and don't you wannnt it, nah nyah nah, it's mine!" ;-) So to make this seem more chronological, I'll start off the way all hunters do - with "the first kill."


I love my 403 primary green mixing bowl even more for its imperfections. In fact, my entire primary set (thus far) shares the evidence of years and years of use. The green 403 was the first piece of Pyrex I found at a thrift-store. I grabbed it, debated it for a while, took it home and have adored it ever since.

I found the red 402 and blue 401 later, but they all seem to be from the early 1940s set with the extended foot. We found the red bowl at a road-side flea market, and it was soo grungy that there was a debate as to whether it had been spray-painted (seriously. It was gross). There, however, was no doubt that it was Pyrex and that the glass' integrity had been maintained. The man selling informed us that, "That right chere'd make a real good bowl for $1" and, not wanting to stick around to discover what 'else' it might make a "real good'un of" we took a chance it would clean up nice and I think it did. I have a soft-spot for gently distressed primary bowls; personally I think I prefer the colors with a little wear rather than in pristine condition.

Snagged the blue 401 at a Salvation Army. It wasn't in the best condition but not knowing when (or if) I'd find another '40s footed 401 in the wild I took the plunge. Would refusing to take this home be like refusing to take a picture of a wild cheetah on safari because I thought it looked a little mangy? Probably. Probably, indeed. And who in their right mind would do that. As every hunter knows, you take the shots your given.

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