This Old Spoon

I have a favorite spoon.  It's the one I use to make homemade sauce for mac and cheese, the one that stirs lemon pie filling over the double boiler, the one that blends the sugar, butter and chocolate into a satin smooth fudge sauce, the one that offers up a taste of the meal to come.

It's my cooking spoon, the one I reach for as I pull out the recipe book, the one I'll clean if it's found dirty in the dishwasher.  I have other spoons, worn wooden spoons from my college days, new wooden ones picked up on an Italian holiday, sturdy stainless spoons with an extra long handle.  But of all my spoons, this is the one I love the best.

It's old and heavily silvered, the bowl of the spoon generously sized, perfect for scooping and serving, stirring and tasting.  Its front edge has been worn down from years of use, and the silver plate finish is buffed to a soft shine.  A dainty floral pattern runs along the handle, capped by a heart-shaped swag at the end.  On the back, a small leaf is stamped into converse curve of the bowl, the mark of an unknown maker more than a hundred years ago.

I love this spoon.  As I feel its familiar weight in my hand, I think about its story, about the women through whose lives it has passed.  Who was that first woman?  Was it a wedding gift or purchased for her hope chest?  Or did she buy it herself, a practical tool for her kitchen?  I'll never be sure.  What I do know is that it came to my grandmother, perhaps from her mother, where it lived in her kitchen for forty-odd years.  With this spoon, she made simple nourishing food to feed her family, raising the boys who would grow up to become my father and uncle.  With this spoon, she mixed the batter for her legendary chocolate chip cookies, freshly baked each time my sister and I came to visit.

And now, as I use this spoon in my kitchen to cook for my own boys, I think of her.  Of the years, the love, the stories, the recipes and the laughter shared around her battered kitchen table with its vinyl cloth.  With this spoon in my hand, I feel her near, cooking with me once again.

Now, dear friend, what memories are found in your kitchen drawer?