It’s just a wooden spoon.
It showed up a couple of days ago in the brown sugar canister. I don’t know where it came from. Maybe it’s new in town, like me, and needed a place to stay. I’m not much of a talker, so I didn’t ask.
It makes me incredibly happy, and I have no idea why. Maybe just the organic nature of wood. It’s real. Not melted and reshaped and embellished with silly flower patterns. It’s just a piece of wood with an indentiaton. Functional art at its best.
Maybe that’s the problem with life. You get caught up with it being so big. The world is a scary place. The basic rights you always thought you’d have teeter on the edge. The future is so uncertain. People you love are slowly fading away. You worry you’re next. You worry.
And then, there it is. A wooden spoon. You pull it out, scoop some brown sugar onto the oatmeal. And then maybe a second round. Because you like the spoon.
You hold it. It’s wood. It’s real. It’s not going away. You realize “enjoy every sandwich” isn’t a wish. It’s a mandate.
Life is so fragile. Hold on tight.
Even if it’s just a wooden spoon.
i like margarine 
So, it’s not just about the spoon. Nicely put.
Well, after the dish ran away with the spoon they backpacked around Europe for a couple of years but the spoon always had a hankerin’ to settle down. They called it quits in Florence, which is, if you’ve ever been to Italy both the best and worst place to end a love affair. The spoon got a gig on Princess cruise ship, worked the Mediterranean for a while and managed to get a cheap flight from Algiers to Lisbon. From there it was on to Orlando and finally Texas. That’s how the spoon ended up at your house. True story. I’m not that creative to make up something like this.
this would explain the spoon’s vaguely european accent.