The Wonderful Wooden Spoon

In 2005, I spent ten months living in New Zealand, and when I left, a girl I had met there bought me a few thoughtful going away gifts. A dirty magazine, a figurine of a puffin that was supposed to be a penguin, and a package of wooden spoons, among other things (and if she's reading this, I didn't take the 'other thing' on the plane, and thank GOD, because they searched my suitcase in the Christchurch airport).

I'm sure at some point I will talk more about my amazing experiences in that country. But this post isn't about the awesometasticness that is New Zealand and how we should all go there together someday. This post is about the wooden spoons. Because I love them. And I managed to talk about them so much in the five months I knew this random Danish girl that they became one of the key things she knew about me. That deserves its own post, right?

Wooden spoons are the foundation of my cooking. There is no utensil that I feel as much for, or as comfortable with.

It slides into the callouses on the middle finger of my right hand, callouses that have existed since I learned how to write with a pencil in elementary school, discovering how the stories I told myself in my head could be put onto paper. That callous has never gone away, in fact, university note-taking strengthened it further. And the slim neck of a good wooden spoon rests there as well. My fingers hold it the same way; it is familiar and light.

Of all the materials used in a kitchen today, wood is the one that evokes the most history to me. Studying anthropology, archeology, and history and having an overactive imagination, I cannot help but place myself back in time when I cook. (I wonder every time I cut into a clove of garlic, who was the first person to add this to food?) And when we, as a race, first started cooking--'Durr...add fire, make BBQ'-- There is no more perfect object for stirring and poking food than a nice young stick. The wooden spoon is a remnant of tens of thousands of years of poking shit with a stick. How can I resist its allure?

It never gets too hot to touch, no matter what boiling, bubbling brew I leave it resting in. When I lift a shallow scoop of sauce to my mouth to test, the wood never shocks my lower lip with a blistering hot surprise.

When I first remove them from their package, they are pale and slightly rough, and over time, they smooth down and take on the color of the meals they've assisted in making. My particular favorite is the yellow glow they take on from the turmeric in the curry. Like they're keeping the color for evidence; "Look where I've been, look what I've done!"

My favorite thing about them, though, is the sound they make. It isn't a cold metal screech or scrape, or a painful plastic squeak. They make a gentle hush when they sweep through a pan of sauteing onions, or a little pot of cheese sauce, or a crockpot of soup. And when they tap, they are firm but friendly, like an old friend knocking on your front door, "Hey, I'm here." There's no urgency in the tap of a wooden spoon. There's a calm reassurance. It leaves a warm and happy echo.

And when the food is done, and the kitchen cleaned and the usefulness of the wooden spoon SEEMS to draw to a close, you can always spank people with it! Which is always very satisfying.