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What the Hell Is This… Found in My Grandmother’s Crockery Cupboard
Every family has that cupboard.
You know the one. The cupboard that groans when opened. The cupboard that smells faintly of time, dust, and something vaguely floral. The cupboard where logic goes to die. In my grandmother’s house, it was the crockery cupboard—a towering wooden monument to decades of dinners, guests, celebrations, and forgotten domestic innovation.
And it was there, wedged between a gravy boat shaped like a swan and a plate that proudly proclaimed “World’s Best Hostess – 1978”, that I found it.
I pulled it out slowly. Carefully. Respectfully.
I stared at it.
Then I said, out loud, to an empty kitchen:
“What the hell is this?”
The Discovery: A Moment Frozen in Confusion
The object itself was… uncooperative. It refused to immediately declare its purpose. It was made of metal—heavy, but not quite cast iron. It had handles, but they were oddly placed. It had holes, but not enough to be a strainer. It looked vaguely culinary, but also faintly threatening.
It was the kind of object that suggested it did something important, but absolutely refused to explain what.
I turned it over in my hands like an archaeologist discovering a relic from a civilization that definitely ate boiled vegetables and thought gelatin was festive.
Nothing.
No labels. No instructions. No brand name.
Just cold metal and judgment.
Grandmother’s Cupboards: A Portal Through Time
To understand why this moment was so unsettling, you need to understand my grandmother’s crockery cupboard.
This wasn’t a place for everyday plates. This was a museum. A domestic archive. A curated collection of objects that survived wars, recessions, moving house multiple times, and the rise and fall of avocado green as a legitimate design choice.
Inside were:
Teacups so delicate you were afraid to breathe near them
Serving dishes used exactly once a year “for best”
Bowls that existed solely to hold other bowls
Utensils whose sole purpose was apparently future usefulness
My grandmother never threw anything away because, as she often said:
“You never know when it might come in handy.”
Which, loosely translated, means:
“This will outlive us all.”
The Object Itself: An Inventory of Confusion
Let’s describe the thing properly.
It was:
Roughly the size of a small dinner plate
Made of metal, possibly aluminum or stainless steel
Slightly concave
With symmetrical handles that made no ergonomic sense
Perforated, but not in a way that suggested drainage
Too shallow to cook in
Too solid to be decorative
It looked like:
A steampunk frisbee
A medieval hair accessory
A prop from a low-budget science fiction film
Something a Victorian inventor would proudly present and then immediately be arrested for
It did not spark recognition. It sparked anxiety.
The First Theory: “It’s for Food. Obviously.”
My brain, trained by decades of kitchens, immediately defaulted to optimism.
“It’s probably for food,” I said.
This was, in hindsight, wildly naive.
I imagined:
A forgotten baking tool
A specialized roasting device
Some kind of straining contraption
Possibly something to do with steaming vegetables no one eats anymore
But every food-related theory collapsed under scrutiny.
It couldn’t strain.
It couldn’t bake.
It couldn’t steam.
It couldn’t hold liquid.
It looked culinary, but behaved like a riddle.
The Second Theory: “This Is a Test”
At this point, I began to suspect that the object wasn’t meant to be understood. It was meant to challenge.
This was my grandmother’s final puzzle.
Her legacy, not in words, but in metal.
A silent message from beyond the cupboard:
“Let’s see how clever you think you are.”
Suddenly, the object felt personal.
Asking the Family: A Collective Breakdown
Naturally, I did what any reasonable person would do.
I showed it to my family.
My Mother:
She stared at it for a long time.
Then said:
“Oh, I remember that.”
Hope surged.
Then she added:
“But I can’t remember what it’s for.”
Devastation.
My Aunt:
She squinted.
Turned it upside down.
Said:
“Could it be something to do with eggs?”
When asked how, she shrugged.
Eggs are always the default guess.
My Uncle:
He laughed immediately.
Which was not reassuring.
Then said:
“We had one of those. Never used it.”
This raised more questions than it answered.
The Internet Enters the Chat
When family fails you, the internet becomes your last refuge.
I took photos.
Multiple angles.
Good lighting.
Bad lighting.
Artistic lighting that made it look even more sinister.
I posted it online with the caption:
“What the hell is this? Found in my grandmother’s crockery cupboard.”
Within minutes, chaos.
The Crowd-Sourced Theories (A Selection)
The internet is many things. Helpful. Unhinged. Confidently incorrect.
Here’s what people thought it was:
A Victorian baby feeding device
A vintage hair dryer attachment
A cheese-making tool
A candle holder for extremely aggressive candles
A part of a lamp (no one could explain which part)
A weapon (multiple people were disturbingly sure)
“Something nautical” (always suspicious)
“My grandmother had one too!” (but no explanation followed)
One person simply commented:
“I don’t like it.”
Same.
A Pattern Emerges: Grandmothers and Mystery Objects
As the comments grew, something fascinating happened.
People began sharing their own grandmother-cupboard mysteries.
Unidentifiable glass rods
Forks with one tine
Wooden tools shaped like regret
Metal contraptions clearly designed before safety standards
It became clear: this was not just my confusion.
This was a shared generational experience.
Our grandmothers had accumulated tools from an era where:
Every task had a specialized object
Instructions were optional
And throwing things away was morally questionable
A Brief History of Over-Specialized Kitchen Tools
Mid-20th-century kitchens were wild.
There were tools for:
Separating eggs in three different ways
Cutting butter into decorative shapes
Holding toast upright “properly”
Making one specific dish, once a year
Many of these tools were sold with great enthusiasm and then quietly retired to cupboards when no one remembered how to use them.
Your grandmother didn’t keep them because she used them.
She kept them because she might.
The Emotional Weight of the Object
At some point, I stopped trying to identify the object and started thinking about why it mattered.
This strange, useless, unidentifiable thing had survived decades.
It had been packed, unpacked, moved, cleaned, and stored.
It had been considered worth keeping—over and over again.
And suddenly, it didn’t feel ridiculous.
It felt… tender.
The Answer (Eventually)
After days of speculation, one comment finally stood out.
Someone posted an old catalogue image.
There it was.
The object.
Labelled clearly.
It was a vintage stovetop popcorn popper insert—designed to sit inside a specific type of pan that no longer exists, for a stove that likely tried to kill you.
It required:
A matching pan
A specific heat source
A level of confidence no longer legally permitted
Without those things, it was utterly useless.
Which explained everything.
Why Grandmothers Never Threw Things Away
My grandmother wasn’t keeping junk.
She was keeping possibility.
That object represented:
A time when she tried something new
A purchase made with optimism
A kitchen full of intention
Even when the pan broke.
Even when the stove changed.
Even when the popcorn burned.
The object stayed.
The Real Question Isn’t “What Is This?”
The real question is:
What do we keep, and why?
Our grandparents grew up in times of scarcity.
They repaired.
They reused.
They saved.
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