Some people can swoon over a spoon. Spoon love much like table saw love or paint brush love is easily appreciated but rarely revealed. My husband and I were at a friend’s home for dinner where soup was served. It wasn’t immediately obvious until I was several sips into my meal, but my spoon was perfect.
It was elegantly tapered with a modestly deep bowl that accommodated a generous mouthful of liquid without overwhelming. It felt balanced in my hand, the bowl being nearly proportionate in weight to the handle. I contemplated the absence of soup spoons in my own kitchen and felt like I discovered gold.
I pictured myself thrusting the spoon in the air and declaring “Behold this spoon in all of its common glory!” but instead I said “This is a nice spoon. Where did you get it from?” For a moment I caught the eye of my host, but he played it cool and said that it belonged to his neighbor…not his spoon. Intrigued, I pressed him for more detail about the neighbor’s superior spoon.
Our host told us that two weeks ago when he was ill, a neighbor was kind enough to bring him homemade soup and a spoon with which to eat it. While convalescing, he quickly recognized the spoon’s perfection and continued to use it long after the soup and his illness had disappeared. Most mornings he dug around for it in the silverware drawer so he could use it for oatmeal. There was a glimmer of uneasiness in him as he confessed. I told him I understood; after all, I loved a bowl once.
Around me, puny teaspoons and awkward tablespoons clinked indelicately: mediocre vessels for soup. Luckily, no one grasped the injustice of their situation; I was the only one with a decent spoon. I knew it. Our host knew it.
The neighbor was careless to lend out such a treasure.