I bought a new mug a couple years ago. Some might say that the last thing I need is a new mug. I have a whole cupboard full of mugs which I have collected over the span of my lifetime. I have so many mugs that they don’t all fit in the cupboard — a couple of them have to hang out in the dish drainer until a spot opens up for them. Out of this plethora of mugs, there are half a dozen that have risen to the status of favorites. If I was a successful minimizer, I would donate all the second-rate mugs to a Mug Rescue Society, freeing up room in the mug cupboard for my favorites. What a nice thought…
Instead, I bought a new mug, which has become a favorite. It was lovely, with a pleasing curved shape with a rim of color around the bottom. There was a pattern of burgundy-colored flowers in the style of Pennsylvania Dutch art running around the sides. This design is what drew me to the mug in the first place. It was really lovely.
I can barely remember what it looked like.
In the space of a couple of years, the flowers have completely disappeared. The rim of color around the bottom is the only thing left to distinguish this mug from any other pleasantly rounded coffee mug in the cupboard. Where did the flowers go, you might ask?
Don’t try to tell me that the color faded from the sun. I live in Juneau, Alaska. Nothing fades from the sun. A vampire or an orc could live quite comfortably in Juneau without worrying about perishing at the sight of sunlight. One thing I know — my Pennsylvania Dutch flowers did not disappear as a result of the sun.
No, I’m sure it was the dishwasher that did them in. My modern dishwasher has a three-hour cycle: three hours of water and dish detergent scouring the surfaces of whatever we sacrifice to its machinations. Glazed department store mugs have no resistance to such corrosive forces. Over the space of a couple of years, the dishwasher scoured away the flowers from my mug.
But my question is, where did those expunged flowers go? Bit by bit, the glaze washed off until no trace of it remains on the mug. But, according to the principles of science, specifically the conservation of matter, those glaze remnants have not disappeared from the face of the earth. It is a simple, existential reality. Although the flowers no longer adorn my favorite mug, they have not ceased to exist in the universe. Where did they go?
I’m picturing the interior of my dishwasher, clogged with microscopic bits of burgundy-colored flowers, mixed in with the missing swirls from my wedding plates and the shiny coating from the handles of my steak knives. Does this eclectic mixture swish across my dirty dishes in every wash cycle? Does it react chemically with the dishwashing detergent to create a super cleaning compound that proceeds to erode the surfaces of all dishes doomed to cross its path? The flowers were quite colorful — can I expect to see that burgundy color deposited on my fresh, white coffee cups, or staining the stainless-steel interior of my dishwasher?
Perhaps the remains of the flowers escaped from their dishwasher confinement, sneaking out in the wastewater under cover of darkness to roam free out in nature. If the pull of those burgundy molecules is strong enough, maybe they will band together again to reform into a new flower pattern. I should keep an eye out in my garden to see if a random, burgundy-colored flower pops up next to the blueberry bushes.
Pete Seeger sings, “Where have all the flowers gone?” I may never know the answer, but I still love my nearly new mug. Even without the flowers, it has a striking rim of color around the base and a rounded shape that feels nice in my hands. I do enjoy relaxing on a weekend morning with a cup of café au lait in my flowerless mug.
Peggy McKee Barnhill is a wife, mother, and author who writes cozy mysteries under the pen name “Greta McKennan.” She likes to look at the bright side of life.
