COLUMN: Don’t Mind the Mess – The big yellow bowl

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 05/12/2024 (497 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

My big yellow bowl was a wedding gift, about a million years ago. Other than a small album of poorly developed photos and a dress I’ll never, ever, fit into again, it’s probably the only physical thing I still have left from that special day. Props to the Tupperware company, because decades later, other than a slightly discoloured lid and a small melt mark from a brief encounter with a hot pan, that plastic bowl is still a functional part of my kitchen arsenal.

“Did Lori bring her big yellow bowl?” is a common question at family gatherings, not because of its vibrant colour, but because of its much-anticipated contents.

When that bowl shows up, they all know they’re getting my famous tasty taco salad. I guess you could add “magical” to that list of adjectives, because it usually disappears within minutes.

This could be a huge ego booster, if there was anything even vaguely unique about my recipe. But the thing is, it’s exactly like any other taco salad recipe in any church recipe book you’ll find.

I’ve freely shared it dozens of times, without omitting or adding a single ingredient, and many recipients will respond later, saying, “I don’t know what I did wrong, but my salad just doesn’t taste like yours.”

They followed the recipe, word for word. It was just as expensive to make – cheese and ground beef are high ticket items these days. They used the same tortilla chips, the same homemade dressing.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the big yellow bowl is what made it perfect. Why? Because it’s part of the memories attached to that salad.

Most of us can remember a certain container or casserole dish our mothers brought to gatherings or church potlucks. We gravitated to them, because we knew the contents were familiar and wouldn’t deliver any weird ingredients or unpleasant surprises.

Among all the other Corningware dishes on the table, we knew the one with the little strawberry print on the side belonged to our mom, and it usually contained scalloped potatoes or hashbrown casserole. Nothing all that adventurous to the palate, but it was predictable and satisfying, and we wouldn’t get the stink eye when the maker saw how much we left over.

This Christmas, my big yellow bowl will make its regular rounds. I’m already stocking up on taco seasoning and tortilla chips, and scouting for sales on the hamburger and cheese.

Because we’re creatures of habit, familiar things become beloved things. It’s why we hang onto items that lost their appeal to anyone else decades ago. There are memories attached to them, and their dated colour and style only add to their charm.

We remember more than the contents. On a subconscious level, we remember the moments attached to them. The loved ones who were still with us the last time we enjoyed that dish. That special someone we brought to meet the family for the first time. The new baby we were carrying. The feeling of togetherness we felt while we heaped our plate, surrounded by the people who raised us, understood us, and loved us anyway.

So yes. It’s just a big yellow bowl. But I know it’s something I’ll probably have to list in my will, explaining that they’ll just have to take turns with it after I’m gone.

I’ll tuck the recipe inside it, just in case.