Forever towels

The chic durability of 100% linen.

My late grandmother’s house comes with forever things. A dark-stained oval dining table, a Cosanti bell, nesting phoebes, and a drawer full of tea towels. On some, the original design is faded into oblivion, leaving faint organic lines across the woven fabric. Others proudly display the calendar for 1995 under the bright silhouette of a chicken, the alphabet in flowers (H is for Hyacinth, I is for Iris), a William Morris print.

In the drawer they seem depleted. Hung on the hook by the sink, or draped over the oven door handle to dry, they are limp. These are not the dish towels of kitchen renovation dreams, casually draped over a farmhouse sink, or the kitchen towels of influencer Instagram, folded in fat packages into an under-sink caddy.

And yet, as I wiped dinner dishes or spread out blueberries to dry, they proved there was still life in these natural fibers. Every towel worked better than the new ones I had at home, purchased on the recommendation of one of the perpetual recommendation engines. The contemporary towels were thick, were looped, were two-sided, and were made of natural fibers. But as I approached them with dripping hands, their smooth surfaces seemed to shy away from the work. Those Williams-Sonoma waffle towels? The Wirecutter pick? They refused to absorb.