A Short Meditation on Wooden Spoons

From age 18 to about 32 I moved or changed jobs or both every two years. One benefit of moving so frequently is it tends to keep one's possessions at a manageable level. Once you settle somewhere things just tend to accumulate.

Today, in order to avoid doing something else, I cleaned out the kitchen utensil drawer. It was cluttered with straws and ketchup packets and sets of plastic forks and spoons. There were also three potato mashers, three pasta servers, four can openers, two apple slicers, four peelers/corers, three spatulas, assorted scrapers, and fifteen wooden spoons. Too much.

I kept six of the spoons, varying handle lengths and bowl shapes, and no more than two of everything else. The rest will be donated somewhere.

Wooden spoons were a staple in my mother's kitchen. Ma said she tried plastic ones at one point but decided they weren't as good. I remember wooden spoons in my grandmothers' kitchen. I've never cooked with anything else. There is something very simple and basic about a wood spoon.

My favorites are made from one piece of wood, as opposed to those that are clearly composites. It's part of a tree, a piece of nature, just like the food. You can get a real workout with a wooden spoon. After a stressful day or when I'm angry nothing quite gets out the aggression like blending two sticks of cold butter into some brown sugar. And you get to eat cookies later. The constant attention a white sauce requires can provide a focus when life goes flying in all directions. Stirring up a casserole or a salad can be a positive and productive act in a chaotic world.

Give me a wooden spoon, a bowl, a stocked kitchen, and I'm a happy camper. But fifteen is way too many.