measuring cup years ago.
My mother had bought it in 1989.
She used it almost every Sunday until she became too weak to stand in the kitchen for long periods.
After she died, my sister and I divided most of her kitchen belongings.
I chose the mixer.
Not because it was worth the most money.
Because whenever I switched it on, the sound took me back to Sunday mornings in my parents’ house.
That might sound foolish to anyone who has never attached memories to an ordinary household object.
I
