The Elusive Heirloom Platter

Remember that very special platter that Hick was worried about? The one that my grandma left to my mother, the off-white platter with lots of cracks that weren't really cracks, but a sign of oldness evidenced in that very special platter, the platter that should have a sticky note on the bottom saying it was from my grandma, for my mom?

Here it is:

Yeah. That's all we've found that even remotely resembles Hick's description. No note on the bottom, but one inside. Which may or may not have been referring to this very dish. Not exactly a platter. Not exactly sure WHAT it is. I guessed a soup tureen. What say you? Or, "What say you'uns?" as Mom would have phrased it. Here's another angle.

And while you're at it...what is that silver thing beside it? It is very light. Like aluminum. Don't know what you'd put in there. The outside and bottom looks like it was hammered out by a metalsmith, if there is such a thing. Regular little indentations, like from a rubber or wooden mallet. That thing got very chilly sitting there on the table. My idea was it functioned as an ice bucket. My sister the ex-mayor's wife disagreed. In fact, she guffawed and haw-hawed and naw-nawed me nearly out the door. Still. She didn't have any idea what it was. It would not have been used for hot dishes, because they would cool so fast in that thin metal. And remember those colorful aluminum glasses so popular in the 1960s? They kept beverages REALLY cold, by forming that condensation that ran down the side to soak whatever surface you set it on. At least I used logic. Even though, if the dish is old, there was not exactly a plethora of ice cubes waiting to be dropped into drinks.

Oh, and behind my favorite purse of Mom's, through that sliver of space by the chair, you can see an arm of the hideous ceramic cherub that balances a bird-bath-looking bowl on its head, formerly filled by Mom with plastic flowers, that Hick wants to bring home. Let the record show that it was made by my grandma, probably just glazed by her in her early crafty ceramic years. Maybe Hick's Little Barbershop of Horrors clientele can wash their fingers in it. Or their hair.

Whew! Enough for now. I'm exhausted from a full day of arm-wrestling Sis over my fair share of bottle openers and hot pads and parfait cups.