In the Name of Forced Family Traditions...

I have these bowls (and if that's not an attention grabber, I don't know what is). I call them the "Grammie Bowls". I don't call them that because they belonged to my grandmother - who I called Grammie. I call them that because they remind me of her. As soon as I saw them I had to have them. This picture doesn't even do them justice. Yes, I'm that excited about my bowls.
Anyway, when I bought them, I immediately called them the Grammie Bowls which left my daughters a little confused, knowing they never belonged to the woman they knew as Grammie. I had to explain to them that when I'm dead - after years of their kids calling me Grammie - and they're baking with their daughters, they'll use these bowls and say, "Oh look...these were Grammie's favorite bowls." And if they have a little chip on them, well they'll be just that much more charming, won't they? In my mind, that's just the sweetest of memories. Rolling their eyes, my girls aren't exactly catching the vision. Brats. But others have. Sometimes when I'm serving chips in them when I have people over, someone might randomly say, "It's the Grammie Bowls!"
They know.

On a side note, I joined this group of women called Operation Baking GALS (GALS standing for Give A Little Support). It started online and over 100 women bake cookies once a month and send them to the troops in Iraq; sharing a little bit of homemade love to those who so deserve it. I'm honored to be part of it. If anyone out there loves to bake and feels like joining, follow that link. :)

So I set out yesterday to bake three different kinds of cookies. I have been told that I make the best oatmeal cookies this side of, well...the moon. So off I go, baking away, when what do I notice? There's a crack in one of the Grammie Bowls!! I turn it over to see if it has cracked all the way through, and it has! I'm pretty much beside myself at this point, filling the bowl with water to see if the crack is going to leak. Luckily it doesn't, but I still am overwhelmed by the tragedy. I hear my oldest daughter come in the house, walk right by the kitchen without stopping in to talk to me, and then head upstairs to her room. By the time I'm over the temporarily paralyzing trauma of finding the crack, I stomp up to my daughters room. She's trying to take a nap and doesn't even open her eyes when I walk in. How can she sleep at a time like this?! My part of the following converasation was in a voice that I'm pretty sure only dogs could hear, but this is how it went...after I stomped across the room to her bed...
"Boo, wake up!! You didn't even come in the kitchen to say hi to me, and I have news!" Not even opening her eyes, she says, "What's wrong?" to which I screech, "THERE'S A CRACK IN ONE OF THE GRAMMIE BOWLS!!"
At this point, she's smart enough to open her eyes and feign concern. "Really? What happened?" I responded (in my dogs are only hearing this voice), "I DON'T KNOW!! I just found a crack in it a little while ago and not a little chip like we thought would be cute and add character but a real crack that goes all the way through and I'm not even close to being dead yet!"
"Wow, that sucks."
"IIIIIIIII KNOWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!" At which point I stomp out of her room.
I get to the hallway, stop in my tracks and yell, "Wait a minuteeeeee......WHICH PART SUCKS?!"
Smartass.