the way they were ... drunk

My European grandparents were partiers. Every weekend they hosted fabulous parties for all their fabulous Eastern European friends -- doctors, nuns and eccentrics, mostly, and they all terrified me equally -- where everyone spoke their third common language and talked about "the old country." Baba (Grandma) dressed like Jackie O on safari -- she was the kind of woman whose alligator shoes matched her alligator coat and purse, who held her cigarette nonchalantly while she chatted soberly with Sister So-and-So about what a shame it was that her son married a Protestant. Grandpa was the life of the party -- in my memories he's always sporting an old-school white tennis outfit and a cardigan, passing trays of delicate hors dourves, full of warmth and joy and jokes, making whomsoever he chose to speak with feel like the center of the universe. I'd love to go to one of those parties as an adult. Those days were long over by the time I was old enough to have a decent conversation with an adult, though. It remains for me a fantasy-land in my mind, a spectacular little world contained in the tiny town in RI my grandparents came to call home -- made in the exact image of the world they left behind. It was a tiny piece of glamorous Europe in the countryside of New England.

They've both passed away by now -- Baba when I was in 6th grade, Grandpa when I was a senior in college. It's been over 2 years and their house is still full of the things they collected across the world. And they had great taste: lush Persian rugs, hand-painted china, hand-carved furniture, silk tapestries from China, a baby-grand Steinway, leather-bound books in 6 different languages -- even their ashtrays were gorgeous. Slowly we're getting rid of it all. I'm not a sentimental person, per se, and I'm not particularly attached to "things." But it's hard to imagine throwing away all the things that I identify so strongly with my grandparents and half of my heritage.

My mother's of the same mindset, even though they aren't her parents. Keep it in the family, is her thing. Hold on to memories. My dad was driving down to DC this weekend anyway, so she packed up a bunch of their things that she thought I might be able to use and sent them down. She told me she was sending me useful things, things for the kitchen.

Oh great, I thought. Kitchen stuff. Not like I cook, but I'm sure I could find someone who can put it to good use.

My dad showed up with boxes and boxes of stuff.

Oh great, I thought. Can't wait to carry all this sh*t with me the next time I move.

The rest of the story... well. I'll just give you a list of the things my mother sent me.

• A food processor.
  
• A cheese grater -- well, that's what I think it is. I can't think of what else it might be. My kitchen item vocab is shaky.
• A blender.
  
• A pitcher.
  
• Beer glasses.
• Really awesome champagne-flute-look-alike shooter glasses.
  
• Port glasses.
  
• Cognac glasses.
• Silver lobster utensils.

Uh. I remember parties, and these people were all from Slavic countries (translation: vodka was their breastmilk), but I don't remember the old folks doing shooters. Clearly I'm going to have to re-evaluate some of the trinkets found in my memory bank.

Maybe I'll do that on the way to the liquor store, where I'll be buying all sorts of old man alcohol I don't care for so I'll have something to serve in my ridiculous new glasses.