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.