My mother, her plastic containers and me

Like any Armenian mother, my mom loves her plastic containers. Our family recently built a house in Armenia, and we have yet to buy even the most basic essentials for it. For me, that means tools, backup lights, extra adapters and a broom. However, for my mother, it seemingly means buying a lot of plastic containers to store food. At first, I thought our new kitchen had a lot of storage cabinets, to my mom’s liking. But her affinity, or rather obsession, with plastic food storage containers has made me doubt my initial confidence. Even though we now have a home in Armenia, my mom has yet to permanently move. For all intents and purposes, she is still a tourist here, and her visits are filled with a sense of respite. Whenever she visits Armenia, I am yanked out of my daily routine and thrown back into the life of a blissful Diaspora Armenian. I find myself walking endlessly around the city with her, eating out three times a day and pondering whether I should have bought that expensive rug from Vernissage that without fail is apparently handwoven according to the seller — a rug that in my humble understanding of economics is not expensive enough to have been handwoven but not cheap enough to have been factory-made. But this time around, we have a house that needs to be furnished — quite an undertaking, since it is our home and not a rental. After a long day of enjoying Yerevan, right before we head home, we stop at a home goods store. I am instantly filled with a rush. Never in my life did I think that I would look forward to this activity. I am excited yet worried. There are too many things my mother and I want and not enough finances. To add to our grievances, we are an emotional family, and despite the limitations the world economy has imposed upon us, we know that in the end our hearts will get the best of us. For a second, I think about how great it is that I do not live in a place like the United States where the culture and its huge stores compel you to buy a lot of stuff all the time. I wouldn’t be able to resist the constant consumerist temptations, especially considering that I am a sucker for good marketing. Yet while we visit a more modestly sized store, it is still overwhelming. We need cups and coasters, but what kind should we get? We have a few cups that we have been using for a few months already, but those were bought in a hurry. They were meant to be a temporary fix to a problem. They serve a functional purpose. The time has come to buy the cups we actually want, the cups that will come to define us and a small part of our identity. As I stand in front of the cup display, I look lost and confused. I can sense that the aisle worker is staring at me with amusement and a smirk on her face. She is also making the tough decision of whether or not to approach and assist me. I am glad she decides not to, because I wouldn’t know where to begin. I refrain from picking up the glass cups, as not to drop them due to the slight anxiety building up inside me from my indecision. Who knows? It might be an expensive piece of glassware. As I stand there alone, with my mother gone to stroll around the plastic container aisle, I examine a glass cup from a distance. The decision is harder knowing that these cups will be for our house and not a place that we have rented. I should probably get the best cups that will last for a long time. But what is the best type of cup for our family and our newly built home? A home that is in the homeland. A home that we have longed for for decades. A home that is literally a dream come true. A new house is like a blank canvas. You think about what you want it to be, and you would rather not mess it up, because every decision could be an expensive mistake. As I focus, I naturally fall into a rabbit hole of unnecessary thoughts. I think about what role these glass cups will play in our new home. It’s only a cup, but a good glass cup can make any drink better and elevate a moment. Despite the abundance we live in, something as simple and attainable as a good glass cup can bring a surprising amount of joy to someone’s day. I know this, because I am very particular about which cups I use to drink my morning coffee. Thus I am adamant about giving this procedure the attention and ceremony it deserves. Who will drink from these cups, and what will they drink? Will we have a lot of guests over? When we do have guests, will we drink wine, coffee or beer? Will these go with the aesthetics of the house and the furniture? Should our first glasses be a practical decision? Maybe in the future, there will be kids around, and we should plan for that already. Should I make the safe decision or risk making the creative one? It’s only a glass cup, but in my mind, it will come to represent who and what this house was meant for. My mother then walks up to me with a bunch of plastic food containers in her hand. She rolls her eyes and says, “Jeez, just choose already. You aren’t making a decision to get married.” My mother is from the Middle East and raised four sons, so she is not in the habit of overthinking the small things. It is also the fourth time today somebody has brought up marriage — something that I have naturally heard a bit too frequently as an unmarried man in my twenties living in Armenia. However, I am relieved that my mother jolts me out of my indecision. It feels like a huge weight off my shoulders. But a few seconds later, when I tell her which cups I want to get, she looks disappointed and says, “No honey, how about you get these. They are way easier to clean.” We go home, and I decide which cabinet will be used to store our new glass cups — another monumental decision. Hardly anybody changes where the glassware is stored in a kitchen after it has been decided, even if the designated place is inconvenient and hardly ideal. My mom, for her part, stores her plastic containers in the biggest and closest cabinet she can find. It is an easy decision for her. She wants them to be in reach in case she needs to hand food to guests before they leave after a long night of socializing. She places them in the cabinet next to the stovetop and says out loud to no one in particular that she hopes she doesn’t lose half of their lids this time around. I feel elated. We finally bought cups and plastic containers — necessary items for any home. With a touch of my mother’s angelic taste, the kitchen, the heart of any house, is slowly coming together.

My mother, her plastic containers and me

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Krikor Sahagian

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This story is FREE for you...

Krikor Sahagian

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