They’re more than just mugs

Since I showed you my messy office yesterday, I thought I should offer proof that I’m not a complete slob. That job’s already taken.

This is my mug collection. I took the photo a few minutes ago and didn’t stage the shot. This is how it normally looks. Okay, Martha wouldn’t approve. After all, the handles face different directions and the spacing’s off, but they’re ready and waiting for the next pot of tea or regularly scheduled coffee fix.

For me, the mug should match my mood, not the dinner plates. When I feel whimsical, I use my stick-figure mug. Whether it holds peppermint tea or hot chocolate is immaterial. On a cold winter’s day, my iris mug reminds me that spring will eventually return, a promise I cling to as firmly as I grip the handle. Likewise, I can’t use the green one with the engraved leaves without thinking of the cottage. Each mug has a story. Some came from friends – each carefully selected. They understand how a fat mug can be the perfect handwarmer, a narrow mug can make you feel slimmer, or a purple mug with a surfacing mermaid can make you feel at home with your daft little dreams.

Other mugs have memories. Two survived a summer criss-crossing Yorkshire walking paths wedged in my backpack between my spare t-shirt and wool sweater. Two hail from the antipodes and got shipped home in friends’ luggage because I had no more room but an emotional need for drinkware from Down Under. Another demanded my sister bring it home from Washington state. Northern Ontario and three local artisans round out the collection.

With a cupboard full of teas, more blends of coffee than sense and a wall full of mugs, the mathematical tippling permutations are astounding. Sorry, I can’t give you a firm number on that. I’m not that kind of bean counter.