Today I had a conversation with my spoon. It was not a long conversation because the spoon was made of stainless steel and had very little formal education, but it was highly enlightening.
—Tell me, I said.
Holding it at eye level while my coffee grew a thin, grey skin of contemplation.
—What is it like to be a spoon?
The spoon did not answer immediately. It waited for a drop of coffee to fall from its tip back into the mug. Plop.
—It is a life of constant compromise, the spoon whispered.
(The sound was similar to a fingernail scraping a tin of spam).
—A fork has teeth. A knife has an edge. I have only… a depression. I am a shovel that went to art school.
—But you are essential!“ I said.
And nearly splashed a small amount of coffee onto my waistcoat.
—Without you, how would we manage to make a brew?
—With difficulty, said the spoon.
—Or with very large tweezers. But think of the indignity! I am plunged headfirst into hot liquid, dragged across teeth, and then shoved into a dark drawer with three rusty bottle openers and a corkscrew that thinks it’s a doctor.
At this point, the coffee mug itself chimed in. It was a heavy earthenware piece, bought from a man who claimed it had belonged to the Duke of Wellington.
—You think you have it bad? the mug grumbled.
—You merely visit the tea or coffee. I have to hold it. Do you know what tea does to one’s glaze? The tannins are fine, but the coffee beans have no manners whatsoever. They darken everything and whisper secrets about exotic places.
A Short Table of Cutlery Existentialism
To better understand the hierarchy of the kitchen drawer, I have compiled this highly scientific table of kitchen drawer anxieties:
| Implement | Primary Function | Secret Ambition | Main Dread |
|---|---|---|---|
| Spoon | Scooping / Stirring | To be a trumpet | Being used to pry open paint tins |
| Fork | Stabbing / Twirling | To be a lightning rod | Bent tines from hard butter |
| Butter Knife | Spreading / Smearing | To duel a sword | Being mistaken for a screwdriver |
| Teaspoon | Dissolving sugar | To see the ocean | The garbage disposal unit |
—Quiet, both of you, I said, picking up the spoon.
—I must drink my brew. If I do not drink my brew, the doctor says my innards will begin a full revolt, and then my waistcoat will expand to a point no waistcoat should expand to, and a waistcoat without a ribs-and-belly support system is merely a sad curtain.
—Very well, sighed the spoon, yielding to the coffee .
—But remember: every time you swallow, a tiny piece of the spoon’s soul remains in the mug.
I drank the brew anyway. It was delicious, though it tasted slightly of something burnt and nickel plating.