The case for using the good plates
I have a bottle of Bollinger in my fridge.
It's been there so long I can't remember which Christmas it came from.
I'm saving it for something.
'm just not entirely sure what.
Most people have their own version of the Bollinger. A dress still hanging in the wardrobe with the tags on. A candle waiting for the right evening. The good plates. The expensive notebook. The guest towels. The room nobody sits in. Objects suspended in a strange state of anticipation, waiting for a life important enough to justify them.
But when exactly is that? A birthday? A promotion? Good news? Visitors? A future version of ourselves? The answer is often surprisingly vague. And yet we wait.
I grew up in a house where certain things were saved for best. The good china came out at Christmas. Certain rooms felt more ceremonial than lived in. Many people did. Some still do. Guest rooms are often the nicest rooms in the house. The best towels are for visitors. The beautiful candles remain unlit. The expensive wine remains unopened. And before we know it, we've accidentally become visitors in our own lives.
What's strange is that the things we admire most in the world tell us the opposite story. Nobody walks into an old pub and wishes the tables looked newer. Nobody visits a centuries-old monastery and complains that the stone steps have been worn smooth. Nobody admires an ancient oak table and says, "What a shame people used it." The wear is the point. The scratches, the dents, the faded edges, the polished corners. All of it.
An old oak dining table has a kind of gravitas that a brand-new one cannot buy. Not because the timber is inherently better. Because it feels as though it has lived. People have gathered around it, celebrated around it, argued around it, spilled wine on it. A new table arrives as an object. An old table arrives as a story. And perhaps that's what we're responding to — not age, not imperfection, but accumulated life.
Which raises an uncomfortable question. Why do we love accumulated life everywhere except in our own homes? Why do we spend money creating beautiful spaces only to become frightened of inhabiting them?
Perhaps that's the mistake. We've confused preservation with appreciation. We think loving beautiful things means protecting them. Maybe loving beautiful things means using them. Lighting the candle. Opening the Bollinger. Using the good plates on a Tuesday. Letting the oak table collect a few more stories.
After all, the things we treasure most rarely become valuable because they remained untouched. They become valuable because they didn't.