Ceramic Flower Lettuce Purple Medium

In times of crisis, I've found that people develop attachments to the most curious objects. My sister once collected rubber ducks dressed as historical figures, but my latest obsession – a medium-sized ceramic flower in a shade of purple that hovers somewhere between grape juice and midnight at a disco – seems far more sophisticated. "It's called sea lettuce," I explained to my neighbor, who had stopped by to borrow eggs and instead found me standing on a stepstool, searching for the perfect spot to hang it. "Though really, it looks more like what would happen if Prince had designed aquatic plants." The ceramic piece came with a keyhole mount that she said reminded her of a tiny submarine porthole. But there was something perfect about its modest size, like it knew exactly how much space it deserved to occupy. I hung it in the kitchen, replacing a copper jello mold that my mother had insisted would "really tie the room together." "It would look lovely in a nursery," she mused, though she knew perfectly well I had converted my spare bedroom into a sanctuary for my collection of vintage typewriters. "That's what you said about my assemblage of antique spoons arranged to look like a peacock," I reminded her. But this was different. The purple sea lettuce had transformed my kitchen from a place where I merely burnt toast into an underwater fantasy where mermaids might stop by for coffee, assuming mermaids drink coffee and aren't too picky about it being slightly burnt. Every time I glance at it while making dinner, I imagine it's quietly judging my cooking skills with the same gentle disdain as my ex-husband's mother, only this time, I find it endearing.