This is what my 1/2 cup looked like two years ago.
The handle snapped off when I was washing it, which I suppose is better than when it might have spilled something messy all over my counter, but still a serious pain for me. Luckily, at that time I was working in Oregon, and one of my main responsibilities was working closely with several local shops to get parts made for our little R&D group. One of my usual contacts was a guy who ran a small machining operation out of his home. We'll call him Bob, because Bob seems like a good name for a guy who runs a machining operation out of his home, and it makes the narration of this story easier if we give him a name. In case it is not clear, "Bob" was not really Bob's name.
Bob had a Ford Thunderbird in his garage, and if I knew more about cars, I could tell you what year, but I'm not that kind of expert. I do know that he was working on restoring that car the entire time I knew him, and a few months before I left Oregon, he finished the job. Like I said, I don't know much about cars, but I can tell you that T-bird was beautiful, and purred like a kitten who could kick your ass. The inside of his garage was papered with pages cut from old calendars of the sort car guys are likely to have: hot cars, often draped with bikini babes, sometimes with exotic backgrounds.
He told me once that he only took off work for two days: his birthday, and Veteran's Day (he had served, though I don't know when, or where, or in which branch), but I knew it wasn't true when he said it, because his shop closed each year for elk season, and occasionally when he went fishing in the mountains. He would return from these trips with pictures to share of brook trout he had caught and released, or stories of the mountain lion they had heard near their camp.
When my measuring cup broke, I knew Bob could fix it--or that he would know who could. As it turned out, he had a friend with a different type of welder repair the handle, but he never charged me for it. This was about the time he found out I was leaving town, and he said it was a going-away present.
A year ago this week, Bob killed himself.
I don't know the manner, only that it was on the eve of his fiftieth birthday. I found out a week later, and awkwardly searched the store for a condolence card for his wife. We had met a couple times, and talked often on the phone when I called for Bob and he wasn't available. One time, while giving my dad and his friend a tour of the Oregon coast, we happened upon Bob, his wife, and their grandson among the tidal pools at Haystack Rock. They had driven there in his Thunderbird.
Bob was the one who told me about a unique butte, unmarked and devoid of trails in the National Forest land south of town. From outside the butte, it looked like it summited in a barren expanse of lava rock, but when you climbed to the top, you found that the caldera was deep, and full of Ponderosa pines, but until you got to the top, you still couldn't see the towering trees in their secret grove. I took Dad there once--we had to try twice that week to find it, but we did, and it was worth the effort.
I considered him a friend. I'd tell him about my bike rides, and learning to ski. He'd show me his invention to hold a fishing line in the ground at adjustable angles, or tell me about interesting projects he had for other clients. Every time I spoke to him, he was upbeat and smiling. I couldn't figure out why he had done it. Neither could any of my former co-workers.
Some time after I moved to Virginia, the handle broke off my 1 Cup measure. I put the handle in a drawer and kept using the cup, trying to keep my fingers clean and dry when they go into the flour, or sugar, or cornmeal. I keep thinking that I should either replace it or repair it, but I no longer know a machinist.
Every time I use it, I think of Bob. Every time, I wonder why he killed himself. Every time, I feel bad for his wife.
Then I wash the cup, and put it back in the cabinet, and try to think about my next chore. I try not to think about how much harder it must be for her. I still wonder why he did it.
I know this post is not uplifting, and it's not even about food, but it is a story about the things I use to make my food, and what I think about when I cook. There are items in every life that carry stories with them. Some day, I may end up replacing that measuring cup, but until then, I keep thinking of Bob, and even though it hurts a little, I feel like that's reason enough to keep using the cup with the broken handle.
