My Grandmother’s Pot & the Anthropology of Inanimate Objects
Akhila Vijayaraghavan fishes out an old Dutch oven while baking, and finds unexpectedly, that family heirlooms can trigger powerful sensory memories.
Living in my mother’s house through lockdown, like much of the food world, I found myself baking sourdough. I turned the house upside down in an attempt to find something resembling a Dutch oven. All I found was a turquoise Judgeware enamel pot that belonged to my grandmother. After her death, five years ago, I claimed a few of her things for my own, and this pot was one of them. I stored it away, almost forgetting about it, until I finally unearthed it on my sourdough therapy.
I looked over the pot, and remembered that her sister-in-law had given it to her. A small label on the lid led me to Judgeware, by the company Horwood Homeware in Bristol, UK. The company was founded in 1898 and is still around. I have no idea how old this pot is, and can only guesstimate that it is easily over 60 years old. Apparently, enamelware made at the beginning of the century is noticeably heavier than what was made after the Second World War. Tapped at the bottom, enamelware from the 1970s produces a distinctive tinny sound.
The process of enamelling itself has a long and rich history. It goes back to the 3rd century when Celtic warriors adorned their harnesses and swords with enamel. The technique was also practiced all over the Byzantine Empire from the 4th to 12th centuries. In the 18th and 19th centuries, Iranian artists used this technique to produce elaborate things like crockery, tabletops, lamps, and jewellery. The technique was brought to India during the Moghul invasion — Meenakari as it is called, is still widely popular and still used in jewellery. The most iconic use of enamelling was demonstrated in the Fabergé Eggs, all created between 1885 and 1917. The popularity of enamelling, jumped over to Art Noveau jewellers who created beautiful pieces using this technique, but when the Great Depression hit, the style slowly fell out of favour.
Enamelware was usually made with steel, but enamelling on cast iron soon became very popular. This gained popularity around the Industrial Revolution when people realised that this technique could be used to create a non-stick surface which was perfect for frying and cooking. Enamelling is the process of fusing powdered glass onto a substrate. The glass powder is usually coloured and melted at high heats between 750 and 850 degrees Celsius. When the powder melts and cures, it becomes hard and glossy, forming a durable design coating on the dish.
The present form of enamelware dates back to 1760 in Germany, and from there, it spread to the rest of Europe. The most iconic colour scheme, cream with a green rim, was Sweden’s popular design. In the UK however, white with a navy blue rim was the colour palette of choice. My grandmother’s pot is a vivid turquoise with a black rim and accents. Extensive research into this particular model and type has proved futile; I couldn’t find another copy of this anywhere.
Enamelware gained popularity in India through trade routes that can be traced to Karaikudi, a hamlet in Chettinad, known for its glorious mansions, rich history, and unique cuisine. This area was the heart of the Nattukottai Chettiar community — their wealth came from trading in Malaysia, Singapore, Burma, and other parts of Asia. They built opulent mansions, in the typical Karaikudi style with a central courtyard; filled it with Italian marble, Athangudi tiles adapted from the palaces of Alhambra, furniture made with Burmese teak, imported crystal, local brassware, and of course enamelware, which was part of every bride’s trousseau.
However, most of these mansions now lie abandoned, falling into disrepair, and the bounty within them hocked on the sly to various antique stores all over Karaikudi. When I spoke to a few antique dealers, I was told that most pieces of enamelware in their possession were at least a 100 years old, made with cast-iron, and came from Sweden and Czechoslovakia. Most of these pieces have never been used and are in pristine condition. People who buy these are usually antique-hunters or aficionados of workmanship from a bygone era. Speaking to these antique-dealers in Chettinad made me realise that people are interested in old things because they carry an innate charm, functionality, and sturdiness.
My grandmother’s pot holds both sentimental and historical value for me. She was the greatest curator of kitsch and her taste was dangerously close to lurid — terracotta elephants, bright plastic flowers in vases, and crocheted doilies. In this glorious pellmell tackiness, an eye for aesthetics shone through — the pillowcases had to match the bedsheets, the curtains always had a lace layer for privacy, and the table had to be laid tastefully, with attention to detail. She never did anything halfway.
But time is a sneaky fiend. It distills some memories, while others fade away, leaving only a mottled picture of passing years. The anthropology of things takes on a deeper meaning when you hold something that once belonged to someone you knew deeply. It becomes a totem to ground you to their memory; a solidity that weighs down the eventual disappearance of the person.
In our quest for youth, we overlook what a privilege it is to grow old. We ignore that old age is not something to be triaged, and that grief is the purest expression of love. It has taken me all these years for the powdered glass of my grief to melt and harden into a beautiful mosaic; a realisation that one never has enough time with the ones we love. Antiques trigger powerful sensory memories; family heirlooms remind people of the things they grew up around. And it is the accumulation of memory and time lend heirlooms their value, as intimate links to personal history — perhaps this is why this enamelware pot has such a hold on me.
Akhila Vijayaraghavan is a trained molecular biologist and environmental consultant.
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