|Such a lovely gravy boat, or not.|
(Note: Cookie would like to thank the Privy Counsel Blog for inspiration. See the link below in the Source mention.)
You see it in an antique mall. Or better yet, a Paris flea market...
It strikes your fancy.
After all, the most gravy laden meal of the season, Thanksgiving, is upon us in about six weeks or less. And its larger than the gravy boat that you currently have.
What's not to love, love. Right?
And it's old. People love the odd old piece, right? Its why Sylvester Stallone is still around. Lots to talk about, right?
But what if I told you that the lovely gravy boat that you found for a steal for a few kopecks wasn't a gravy boat at all.
What if I told you that the lovely piece of porcelain, with the real gold trim, was a not even a piece of tableware.
What if I told you it was really a bourdaloue?
Ah, says the idiot who doesn't know their head from their ass, but: "I just adore their tableware. Very exclusive," as they drag their fork through the golden gravy enrobing their mashed potatoes.
Tant pis. Right?
But you see, a bourdaloue (BORE-da-loo) is really not a gravy boat. It is an 18th personal urinal for ladies.
That's right my delight, it is a very fancy personal piss receiver.
In the days before milady had a powder room, she could step to the corner of the room, place a leg up on a stool, hike up her dress and the layers of layers, and make way for this wee vessel and well, take a wee.
What's that you say? You need to be excused? Not feeling so well?
The bathroom? It's closer than you think.
SOURCE: The Privy Counsel