U lead the way downstairs - he hadn't heard the noise so I think he was expecting armed robbers it something. No robbers, but there were fragments of broken china scattered across the entire room. The drying rack had collapsed (no earthquake apparently can be blamed), sending its contents to the floor. Luckily most of the plates (including the gilt edged Wedgewood) that his parents gave us on Sunday were already safely put away, so the carnage was cheap, if not small.
What has me most upset, however isn't the plates. It is the fact that I now have to give ib and buy a new drying rack. The one we had been using we bought at Ikea. It is the same as my dad has in his kitchen, the same as I had in my kitchen in Boston. I was surprised by how emotionally attached I was to the drying rack, until I had to justify it to U and found myself blurting "it is the one thing in this kitchen that reminds me of the kitchen I grew up with! You have lots of things, but in this foreign kitchen this is the one thing that is the same for me!"
Huh... Kinda took me by surprise too.
But the problem was the rack didn't quite fit on the counter. I hacked off on of the supports so that it half rested on the ledge behind, but U (and our house guests a few weeks back) would knock it over and complain it was dangerous.
The more they complained, however, the more attached I became to the blasted rickety rack. I knew it wasn't the best option, I knew it would likely collapse some day and cause an avalanche of dishes. But I wasn't willing to let it go, wasn't willing to get rid of what I had apparently decided was my link to home.
But as U, half asleep, pulled out the vacuum cleaner and began picking up shards of china, I realized that sometimes you have to admit defeat. Sometimes that is just the way the... plate... shatters.
Time to go shopping. We need a new drying rack. I don't suppose Nittori sells any covered in red maple leaves?