All Hail The Spoon

As I wander through my 29th year (again), I pause and wonder (again) about the beauty of re-learning things I have previously learned.  I like to look at it this way rather than thinking of it as "crap I should have remembered the first eight times I learned it."  You know the sort -- "I'll definitely remember this particular spot where I am placing my reading glasses."  (No, you won't.). "I can hop right down off of this chair I've been standing on to fix a wall hanging."  (Only if you want to limp for a week.) And my all time favorite, "Eating a full hamburger, fries, and shake meal is a great American summer classic activity and will be perfectly fine just this once." (Seriously?  You couldn't even do this when you were teen without wanting to barf the rest of the day.)

There are some things that are a treat to re-learn, despite the posted evidence.  I recently had the opportunity to become reacquainted with one of the most useful gadgets of all time.  This item has always been in my arsenal of basic go-to tools, and in fact I have several in varying sizes, shapes, and materials.  I am referring to the great classic Wooden Spoon.

Here's how this awareness came about.  I was fortunate enough to go on a classic tropical vacation recently.  I had been looking forward to it (possibly unhealthily so) for several months.  I positively NEEDED to relax by a pool and think about nothing except whether I should have lunch now or in an hour.  Or both.  Finally vacation time came.  I was pretty sure someone had altered the space-time continuum to make sure an entire extra year of waiting got squeezed in between the weeks leading up to departure.  (But only into my Perceived Waiting Time.  My Actual Useful Time seemed to have been reciprocally shortened, leaving me scrambling to get everything necessary done before I could commence poolside daydreaming.  I believe scientists refer to this as the Theory of Relative Stress.  The equation looks something like PWT/AUT= Rainbow Circle of Death.

Anyway, finally I found myself on a lovely beach with nothing to do but hold down my beach towel and read my book.  I had dutifully applied sunscreen to any place that was easy to reach, and I figured 1) we wouldn't be there too long anyway 2) clouds were passing often enough and 3) I was pretty tan after summer activities as it was.  It will surprise absolutely no one to learn I absolutely fried the middle of my back due to being not "easy to reach" and me being "too stinkin' lazy." (I am quoting myself both times.) Initially, I knew I had a sunburn, but I was holding out hope it wouldn't be too bad.  But by bed time, I knew I was toast.  Literally.

Yep, that next morning, I could see by effort of craning my neck that I was an unpromising shade of red right through the middle of my back.  So now I had a dilemma.  I wasn't on vacation alone, I was with one of my sons and his two buddies for their senior trip.  Dealing with the location of this burn left me with something of a puzzle.  I wasn't adverse to having my son help apply sunscreen whilst I was wearing a swimsuit, but having him help me at other times was a bit awkward.  How to get that dang aloe evenly applied on my own after exiting the shower? Squirt it on a towel first and then rub the towel on my back?  That sounded like a new form of torture.  Spread it on a wall and then rub up against the wall?  Could be messy.  And expensive when the hotel ended up having to re-wallpaper the bathroom.  Probably not a good idea.  No, I needed a tool that could reach my back easily and apply whatever first aid I currently stood in need of.

So I roamed up and down the aisles of the little grocery store, ("Foodland.  Where I buy all my food.  And all my land."  Bonus points for identifying the mangled quote) trying to figure out what doodad would be my salvation.  And there, in the kitchen tools section, was my answer.  The standard, cheap, wooden spoon.  Long handle, nice smooth back to the spoon portion, and $2.  It was perfect.  And thus I spent the next three days, happily, if a bit wince-ingly, applying multiple layers of aloe and after sun lotions.  

The beginning of the third day proved to me yet again how helpful this classic implement truly is.  The itchy stage began.  The so-itchy-you-wish-you-were-Wolverine-so-you-could-pop-those-bad-boys-out-of-your-knuckles-and-get-some-serious-scratching-done stage.  The I-Am-Truly-Going-To-Lose-It stage.  Like all bad experiences, I had blocked this part of sun burn healing from my memory.  But the moment I felt the first crunchy twinge between my shoulder blades, it all came screaming back.  Once again, the spoon came to my rescue.  That lovely, long handle reached every scratchy spot.  Is there anything more satisfying than actually being able to scratch a spot that's been driving you nuts?  Especially when that one spot is, in fact, your entire back?  Ahh, thank you Wooden Spoon.

And as I thought happy, friendly thoughts about my wooden spoon, I recalled all the other terrific uses it has: 

When one's offspring has outgrown one's self and one's arm's reach, the Wooden Spoon is particularly effective at delivering smacks upside the head when said offspring thinks he is safely out of reach.  

When one is slightly below average height for a female human and one's kitchen cabinets are set at a height convenient for NBA players, Wooden Spoon comes once again to the rescue in the acquisition of pots and pans on the top shelves.  (This would once again prove the need for relearning patently obvious things.  I recently neglected to use the Wooden Spoon as I was attempting to put away my cast iron Dutch oven on a top shelf, apparently thinking I had Go-Go Gadget arms.  I do not.  I now have a new stove and a mild concussion.  All for want of using the Wooden Spoon.) 

Wooden Spoons have been critical in the rescue of lost favorite shirts behind the washing machine, in the manufacture of Cub Scout bows (needed an arrow to test the string's pull), and as a makeshift splint for "broken" wrists.  (It always amazes me how "broken" bones and "impending death" always seem to spontaneously resolve when chore/nap/bed time ends.  It could do our national healthcare system a world of good if we employed an army of gray-haired women to bake cookies in Emergency Departments or ICUs and have them declare "Yay, we're all done with chores!  Let's have cookies!" Every 45 minutes or so.  Think about all that miraculous curing.  It's a crime we haven't implemented this already.)

A Wooden Spoon is the perfect tool for testing the correct consistency for brioche dough (just enough flour to make a wooden spoon stand up), pulling an oven wire rack out of a hot oven when all of the oven mitts are AWOL, and reaching under the couch to get the remote.  (Unless you have the standard carnivorous couch that eats remotes and half of earring sets.  Then no spoon in the world can help you.  Sorry.)

And in a pinch, you could always stir some soup with it.  But wash the sunscreen off first.  All Hail The Wooden Spoon!