The spoon pictured to the left is at least 40 years old. Older than my son. Older than my relationship with JB. I purchased it when I moved into my first apartment in Chicago. It is the utensil of choice when I am cooking. The handle used to be straight, but because I am right-handed, the heat from the frying pan while I am sauteeing has gently curved the handle toward a soft crescent shape. Its bowl is dark from almost daily contact with oils and sauces. Just tonight, as I was sauteeing onions and tomatoes for this evening’s omelette, I found myself admiring this spoon’s heft, stains, history, and shifting grain.
This spoon is, of course, a warm reminder of my life’s nurturing and cooking— for friends, for family, for self. It is aging like I am and I am quite sure it will outlast me. One day it may find itself in an old cardboard box at a garage sale and when not purchased, which it certainly will not be, will be tossed into a garbage can where it will become part of a landfill somewhere.
If lucky, it will slowly decompose into the earth, still with so much function left to stir, blend, and agitate.
Wow, what stories that spoon could tell!
Magnificent, moving, creative look at life and aging and death. This is what I admire in you!
I
DONOT
BELIEVE
IB
WOULD
ALLOW
SPOON
TO
RECYCLE
THIS
WAY
MY
VISION
ISA
LEFTHANDED
GREAT
GRANDCHILD
COOKING
SPOON
INTO
ITS
REVERSE
CURVE
Wow! I liked this post very much. I could relate very well to the topic. Such thoughts may seem silly to some. But the feelings we have for certain things, that have been with us for a long time, is really special and inexplicable. The last two paragraphs are really touching.
Oh how simple objects hold our life stories