Spooning

If you live with me long enough, you'll learn several important things, such as: I can't stand to leave the dirty dishes in the sink until the morning, I like the cast iron pots and pans to dry out all the way before they go back into drawers, I am really good at packing a refrigerator to the gills, I like many kinds of tea, cereal, and nuts available at the ready, I much prefer my cocktail before dinner, rather than after or during, I'm fastidious about sticky spots on any kitchen surface, although I am sometimes shockingly unconcerned about what goes on behind the closed tupperware cabinet, I turn into a raving lunatic if I run out of olive oil or pepper or coffee, I am rather clever when it comes to spontaneously making up songs while cooking in the kitchen, and I tend to spend a really long time making decisions about things that don't actually matter, like where the rolling pin should live, or how to slice the onions (when they're just going to be cooked down anyway). But there is one thing it may take you awhile to notice. It's a sneaky little idiosyncrasy, yet one that rises to the surface several times a day. Watch closely. It's all about the spoons.

Okay, so I'm particular about utensils. I am quite used to other people not being particular about utensils, although I'm still pretty confused about why people don't care more about the size and shape and characteristics of the device that is going to touch their very own mouth many, many times in a sitting. For example, if Matthew and I happened to be in the depths of the wilderness with a pot of chili, he would be perfectly content using any of the following items as a utensil: splintery stick, tiny twig, rock, leaf, squirrel tail. I, however (you know, the picky one), would be in the corner of our makeshift shelter, furiously whittling away at the rib bone from a deer carcass as I attempted to craft the perfect spoon. Granted, the chili might be long gone by the time I finished the spoon construction project, but it would be worth it. I'm not much for settling when it comes to utensils.

When one researches spoons, one learns that the earliest northern European spoon was made of a small splinter of wood, and there were spoons being born all over the world, made from shells and horns and, yes, even spikes and thorns. This is the kind of setting that would have suited Matthew quite well. In fact, when I start to worry that he is actually a barbarian parading around as a modern man (which is actually sort of often), I need to remember his roots. You know, back when folks made do, adorning their bodies with leaves and muskrat pelts instead of boxer briefs. He would no doubt argue that he is quite a MacGyver, such the boy scout. My response, of course, is we're not cave dwellers. We have more than just rocks and dirt in our kitchen. See this? It's called a table! And this? It's called a plate! Oh, and this over here? It's a pan! A cup! A bowl! A spoon! This, though, is when a person like me, in order to maintain sanity, must opt to pick my battles, as it were.

I have certain utensils that I like for certain things. I mean, I have a whole, real adult set of perfectly respectable matching utensils, and a box of real, actual silver, but I also have many other options in my drawers -- because certain foods call for certain tools. My multiple utensil drawers look, admittedly, like that of a college student's. It's a mish-mash of all sorts of things. Some items look like they were stolen from the cafeteria. But that, you see, is precisely the point. See, the small spoon with the flat top is the best yogurt spoon, and the black-handled spoon with the egg-shaped bowl is really good for polenta. The spoon with the tiniest bowl is good for eating things out of jars, like peanut butter or, ahem, chocolate sauce. The big bowled, brown-handled spoons are perfect for soup and cereal, and some kinds of macaroni and cheese. And soup spoons! I do love the rounded bowl of the soup spoon. One of the best spoons is the one with the swirly handle and broad, shallow bowl, which is either on loan from my mother or something that I've stolen from her. I will, for the sake of daughterly love, hope that she chose to let me borrow it. The best part is that, when I am at my parents' house, I can use their spoon that is just like this. I have one, they have one, and I am very happy eating spoon foods at both places. At one point in time, there was a whole set of this kind of silverware, but there aren't many pieces left now. And I think I know why! Everyone who tried this spoon at my parents' house immediately and surreptitiously slipped it into their pocket or purse. It's that good.

When I am faced with a plastic utensil situation, I definitely panic. First of all, let's just get this plastic knife issue out of the way. The only time plastic knives should be used is when teaching very young children how to cut things. Pardon the assumption, but all adult humans feel silly when using a plastic knife to actually try and cut something. No one can possibly take their own self seriously when trying to saw through a food with a stick of slightly ridged plastic. It's not possible.

But, really, more about the panicking now. A plastic fork or spoon feels like a joke to me. First, I feel sad thinking about how it's going to end up in a landfill -- you know, because it's not a real utensil. It's an impostor! It's a temporary tool that lessens the eating experience by about a hundred percent. And sometimes they're strangely sharp! And flimsy! And people tend to chew on them and suck on them longer than a person ought to. And that is certainly not very becoming.

Eons ago, when Matthew and I first ordered take-out together, he had the gall to A.) try to eat out of the container from whence it came and B.) try to use the utensils that were provided in the bag. Umm, no. Not okay. It probably goes without saying that when we order take-out nowadays, before the bag is even opened, he asks what kind of dish I would like to eat out of -- and, the best part is, he likes to ponder his choice for a little while, too. Which fork? he will say next, and I will stare at the options in the drawer for awhile, making sure I pick the right one for the job, and he will choose his fork. I try to steer him away from using a dessert fork for his dinner. See? I try to explain. This fork is smaller. Shorter tines. Shorter altogether. And if this doesn't resonate, then I take an approach that connects with his psyche a bit more: you won't be able to fit as much food on this small fork. Ah ha! The light bulb goes off. And, once an opportunity for retrospect comes, he will openly admit that it is a more pleasant (and, uh, civilized) experience this way. Let's save the plastic for picnics, I urge.

The thing about a spoon is that it is the kitchen tool that is most multipurpose, and therefore the most useful overall. And there are so many kinds! Just think! Serving spoons, mixing spoons, teaspoons, soup spoons, iced tea spoons, dessert spoons. And the unlimited possibilities of spoons! Why, they're musical instruments, of course. You can hang one on your nose for a party trick. You can take your medicine with a spoon. Spoon bending stage magic! Air guitar! A non-threatening sword! The safest utensil-juggling around, the best utensil for digging a hole, and, we must not forget that a spoon is the only utensil in which you can check your reflection. Plus, how else would schoolchildren learn about concave and convex surfaces? A spoon can serve as a fork in many instances, but a fork cannot serve as a spoon. And a knife can certainly not help you with soup or with pudding! Or peas! A spoon is the best mixing tool around, and while it cannot cut to save its little life, it is much less dangerous. Set your kid down on the floor with a drawer of spoons and everyone's happy. Set him down with a drawer of knives or forks, and everyone's screwed. See? Spoons.

Ahhh. Spoons.