Yesterday, my sister in-law and I went to a street market where she mistook a bourdaloue, a genteel urinary receptacle women would slip beneath their dresses to relieve themselves, for a gravy boat.

Look at them. It’s an easy mistake, right?


Anyway, an hour into our fantastic voyage, she came bounding towards me, clenching her booty and beaming with pride. I took the lovely piece of crockery from her grasp until she resumed proper brain function and explained how she haggled and stuck it to the man. Roooaarrr!

Seeing her all empowered broke my heart, but I had to tell her the truth: her beloved gravy boat, the one she’d fought for, was in fact a portable piss pot.

A few false starts later, I took her to a coffee stand since copious amounts of caffeine is a cure-all and seemed a good a place as any to throw shade.

She got a little pouty when I broke the news but her Ames’ stoicism dashed any threat of a public display of emotion. After the disappointment faded, we laughed about it and agreed that if the family insists on stuffy, formal holiday gatherings, her piss pot is going on the table!

A Bourdaloue

A Gravy Boat