My girls tease me because I insist on listening to Italian opera when I cook spaghetti. And they've learned that the kettle is on for a cup of Irish Breakfast tea when the strains of "Londonderry Air" can be heard. I'm a hopeless romantic! A woman so fully satisfied by all that is sentimental.

When our mother died, my sisters and I endured the agony of dividing her household things. Oh, the memories...a set of wooden spoons...the scratched and dented "brownie pan"...our Thanksgiving turkey platter...a recipe box of index cards bearing her beautiful penmanship. As far as we were concerned, these were the priceless jewels of our mother's estate.

Of my grandmother's things, I asked only for an apron, and the old deck of cards she and I would play Gin Rummy with when I was about ten. I wear that soft cotton purple-and-white apron often, but enjoy even more the sight as it hangs on a pegged rack in my kitchen.

I remember as a young girl, how handsome my grandfather looked to me in his blue Burlington Railroad conductor's uniform. When he passed away, I was given his ticket punch, and some shiny brass buttons off that uniform. Silver and gold could not have satisfied me more.

Yes, I'm a romantic, a sentimentalist. But truly, it is the sense of connection I suppose I feel, which compels me to surround myself with these things. Perhaps one day my daughters, too, will have a need to connect, and an appreciation for all that is sentimental. I hope that one will fix afternoon tea in my teacup, and the other listen to Italian opera in her kitchen.

Back

Now playing: Londonderry Air