In about 1979 or 1980, when I was living in Boston with a fabulous roommate who turned into such a good friend that my first daughter bears her name as a middle name, we went to an enormous outdoor flea market in Somerville. There were table after table of all manner of "fleas": old car parts, post cards, clothes, tires...you get the picture. At one table we found a fabulous deviled egg plate. Instantly, I fell in love. I think it was $5.00, well within my twenty-something's beginner travel agent budget. I snatched it up. I used that plate often, and took great pleasure in it every single time. In 1989, I walked home from a neighborhood party with my precious egg plate in hand, tripped on my own stairs going up, and in an effort to save my just-walking one year old from doing a face-plant on brick, I sacrificed my egg plate which smashed to smithereens. I was heart broken. Several years later, maybe 10 or so, that same friend, the one with whom I had lived, brought me a wonderful deviled egg plate; not the same, but also vintage, and also very cool. And I loved it and treasured it. It had belonged to her mother.
In November, her father died. The day of his funeral, a rogue glass baking dish committed suicide by leaping from an upper cabinet in my house, and crashed down on the egg plate, breaking it in 2.
What does any resourceful person do, when trying to recreate one's youth? I leaped into action and checked EB*ay. There I found many deviled egg plates, but alas, none just like the one from my friend's mother. Lo and behold, however, the self-same plate that I had purchased in 1979. My new old plate is pictured here.
I raise my deviled egg to my dear friend in toast.