Guardian readers reflect and reminisce about the cooking equipment that has been significant in their families

Among the wedding presents from 1963 that I still use (Letters, 9 October) are Denby ovenware, a complete set of Prestige kitchen utensils, a Victorinox paring knife we bought with money given to us for bedsheets, and smoked-glass wine and sherry glasses from a friend of my parents. When a grandchild noticed that we had rather a lot of flower vases, we had to confess that when asked what we would like as a present, we were so embarrassed that we always said “a flower vase”, knowing that it could come in at any price. It was a vintage year, 1963.
Prue Baker
Brighton

• I inherited my mother’s potato masher, bought just after the war. As a newly married housewife setting up home with everything in short supply and rationing continuing, she told me that she was delighted to see the masher for sale and bought two – one for her sister. It was flimsy – a thin circular metal holed base with three wires attached, which were twisted to form the stem, and a wooden handle painted blue. History and memories in a utensil.
Sue Rawson
Scarborough, North Yorkshire

I wait each year for my cumquat tree to fruit. Then I make Mum’s jam

It’s citrus season, and the trees of my streets are heavy with the bright balls of fruit. My son sometimes picks me a lemon or two on his way home from school, and I help myself to the basket of limes that hang from the fence of a nearby house. The potted plant on my balcony fruited early this season, and for weeks I watched as the hundreds of small green cumquats slowly ripened. I finally picked them when they were fattened with juice and seeds and colour, the cat squatting on the ground to watch. When I dropped a cumquat she sniffed at the skin and turned away, as if sensing the sharpness of its flesh.

Since my daughter moved out several years ago, my household has shrunk. It is now only my son and me. And the cat. A scratchy, sullen creature who delights in ignoring us both unless we are sitting in the seat she believes is hers. My son has begun cooking for himself, and so I find my services in the kitchen required less often. Except for the yearly making of cumquat jam.