海角大神

The day my kitchen cabinet tried to kill me began like any other day. I had just padded downstairs in my robe to start a pot of coffee when I heard an ominous creak. Then an angry roar. Then, as some previously untapped instinct kicked in and I backed across the kitchen 鈥� I was still semi-asleep 鈥� the cabinet door right above my coffeemaker opened, and my entire collection of mugs spilled out. Some dropped into the sink; the rest poured forth in an impressive flood onto my tiled floor. They landed with a crash of glass and pottery, inches from my slipper-clad feet.

It is always disturbing when one鈥檚 cabinetry turns violent. Fortunately, the explanation was simple: The plastic pegs holding up the adjustable shelves had suddenly failed, shearing off flush with the inside of the cabinet and allowing the shelves to fall. When I went to buy replacements, the hardware store guy said he鈥檇 heard my story before. Apparently, some plastic pegs weaken over time and need to be replaced every decade or so, lest they suddenly decide they鈥檙e fed up and retire in a spectacular fashion. I purchased heavy-duty metal replacements for every plastic shelf peg in the house.

That evening, as I installed the new pegs, I reflected that I鈥檇 learned a valuable lesson fairly cheaply. No one had been hurt, and I hadn鈥檛 really lost much 鈥� all my plates and cooking equipment had been in other cabinets.聽

But every coffee mug I owned, except for one small teacup that had been in my dishwasher, was lost. What was I to do?

I needn鈥檛 have worried. Coffee mugs, it turns out, are something of which everyone has extras. They are the opposite of socks. Instead of mysteriously disappearing, they tend to mysteriously appear, collecting in kitchens like so many ceramic dust bunnies. Regretted impulse purchases, sole survivors of long-broken dish sets, old gag gifts that had gagged far more than they鈥檇 gifted: My friends had them all. So did their friends, and their friends鈥� friends. And every one of them was more than willing to share their extra mugs with me.

In no time, my newly repaired cupboard ranneth over, filled with mugs of every size and shape. I was certainly grateful for the donated mugs, but some of them were radically different from what I would have chosen for myself. So here was the strange and unexpected thing: I fell in love with them. All of them.

The mug is such an attractive canvas for expression. If you can think it, it can probably be put on a mug 鈥� and most likely already has been. Our noblest dreams (鈥淰isualize World Peace鈥�) and our snarkiest sentiments (鈥淚鈥檇 love to stay and chat, but I鈥檓 lying鈥�) 鈥� they鈥檙e all right there, with full-color art or in block-print letters. My once boring cupboard was transformed into a rainbow of human experience. I quickly came to enjoy dipping into that spectrum every morning.

I also discovered that there is something uniquely satisfying about drinking from a secondhand mug. The dishwasher-faded graphics and spoon-scratched interiors are comforting, like a well-worn T-shirt: something one can relax into and simply be with, an old friend. And since much of my collection came from people I don鈥檛 know, the cups contain kernels of mystery: Who had visited Colfax, Wash., home of 鈥淭he World鈥檚 Largest Chainsaw Sculpture鈥�? Whose donation had earned them a thank-you mug from the State Historical Society of Missouri? And who had needed the comfort of a mug featuring two bedraggled kittens in the rain with the words, 鈥淚 promise, someday we鈥檒l both look back on this and laugh鈥�? Could he or she have known that one day, that very mug would comfort me?

I don鈥檛 know. But I do know this: If you ever come by my house for coffee, you won鈥檛 find it served in a neat new cup with a matching saucer. Instead, you鈥檒l get a unique example of human creativity that has been very much loved in the past 鈥� and will be for years to come.