In 1962, February 17th to be exact, I got married. I was 22 years old and not wordlywise and terribly sheltered and naïve. When it came time to set up housekeeping, my mother, who was the grand maven of the domestic arts, assisted me so I would have everything I needed for a successful married life. One of her initial purchases as a must have object for a well stocked kitchen was an egg poacher.

All my life, I recall my mother using her own egg poacher and serving my father his perfectly-domed creation in the center of hot buttered toast. This was a natural expectation just as my mother's ancient banged up drip coffee maker produced the best coffee I have ever tasted.

I suppose when I received the egg poacher, I accepted it as a passing of the baton. It became an non-descript Kitchen utensil that I used when I put myself on automatic pilot to present attractive nourishing fare. However, the egg poacher became symbolic of my mother's world view. As I grew and changed, I recognized that my mother's life was narrowly defined by her kitchen objects and running the house was her reason for being.

As time passed, I became more and more dissatisfied with my life - feeling terribly depressed and unfulfilled in my marriage and in my life. Questions I may not have known to ask were being asked by the Women's Movement. I could not settle for the egg poacher as the defining symbol of my life and resented its presence in the rear of my cupboard.

My mother's life still presents a painful struggle to me. Her martyred sacrifice of selflessness to my father's will served none of us in a sustaining, healthy way.

I became angry at my mother as I acknowledged her limitations as a role model for womanhood and I realized my own marriage was modeled after the hostile dependency of my parents.

My mother's been dead since 1985 and I still struggle with her messages and gifts. Now, I'm able to use the egg poacher with fondness and even Stephie, my daughter, was impressed by the roundness and texture of her 1st perfectly poached egg when she was home for Thanksgiving.

December, 1994