When I was a kid, we didn’t eat out much. I think my parents’ austerity measures were designed to keep us from being spoiled, because we later learned that we could easily have afforded the occasion meal out. Instead, our annual meals in restaurants usually included a couple of breakfasts at Voyageur Service Centres, one stop at the new and exciting place called McDonald’s, and perhaps one dinner in some mid-range restaurant that often featured desserts behind a glass door in a cooler. I thought those bowls of cubed jello were the height of elegance. I always begged to try a dish, but my mother scoffed at the idea of paying for something she could (and sadly did) make at home on a regular basis. When I finally tried restaurant jello at a pancake house in my twenties, I was intensely disappointed to find that it tasted no more exciting than - well - jello.
2015, kiln-fired and cold worked glass, found vessels (Sold)