SPOON SNOB (2025-34)

 

I hate to admit it.

I'm a spoon snob. 

It's something that seems to have developed the last decade or so. I have a similar snobbery for drinking glasses. The glass, like the spoon, is best when it is thin, with a crisp edge, and enough curve to hold liquid but not so deep that it causes the lips to do anything but act elegant around it. 

My husband Dave knows this about me, and blessedly does not cause me to feel any shame about the fetish. He knows, when he is dishing up soup,  that he needs to dig in the drawer or the dishwasher for the exact right spoon. And when he brings a scoop of orange sherbet as a late night snack, he will be sure to use the long stemmed thin bowled milkshake spoons stored in the side of the utensil drawer.

Once I bought a set of  metal alphabet stamps with a small hammer just to label my favorite spoons. I wish I could find that set now, because I'm down to one favorite spoon, and that is getting dangerously low. I occasionally dig through bins at thrift stores to see if they have a perfect spoon. They rarely do.

I have a similar passion for spatulas. Old metal ones. Firm, with no slats and a perfect thickness to slide under a grilled cheese sandwich. I use my favorite vintage metal spatula in my largest pot when I'm cooking for the masses. The thin flat edge easily scrapes the bottom of the pot so I get even browning. Today, when I was washing it, I noticed a thin line in the middle of it. My cooking angels whispered to me that this might be the beginning of the end for my favorite spatula. It's getting ready to split in two. Time to go thrifting. They really don't make them like they used to.

Come to think of it,  my fetish for spoons may not be as recent as I had thought. Back in high school, when Libby and I attended the art classes at Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh, I once pained a self portrait from the perspective of a spoon. The classes, sponsored by Carnegie Mellon University, had two students from each of the schools in the Greater Pittsburgh area, met on Saturday mornings. Mr Fitzpatrick was the head teacher. He was a fabulous artist and a renowned teacher. We had a class in the auditorium, and then climbed the marble stairs in the art museum to the second level, where the halls were lined with wooden easels awaiting us. Sometimes we were set loose int he natural History and Art Museums to do some free sketching. Each week there was a specific assignment. The following week Mr Fitzpatrick selected a Picture of the Week, which was hung on the wall in the stairwell leading to our easels. 

You would have to know that visual art was not particularly in our skill set. I don't know exactly why we were selected to represent our school. The other kids there were incredible artists and were frankly quite intimidating. I knew full well where I was weak.

But I also knew my strengths. I may not have been the best at the art itself, but I could challenge anyone there with my ability to be creative. I think Fitz must have liked that, because I was on the honor roll enough to end up with a recommendation to the Carnegie Mellon University School of Art when I graduated. If I couldn't figure out perspective in a certain painting, I'd change the angle and paint something wholly different than everyone else. 

The week we were assigned to paint a self portrait, I decided to paint my face in the reflection of a spoon. That way the face could be upside down and distorted. I knew what I couldn't do well, and let my creativity fill in the weak spots. The next week my piece was featured as the picture of the week. I was fully aware of what I was getting away with. But that's ok, I never professed to be a visual artist. Our classes on Saturday mornings gave me a greater appreciation for truly gifted visual artists. I'm not one of them.

This is not my work.
I borrowed it from a real high school artist
whose name I don't know.