Fishing my favorite wooden spoon from its home in the pottery urn, I prep the counter for banana pudding. I have six wooden spoons, but only one, with its faded flowers etched into the bowl of the utensil, is worthy of stirring up Mama’s Banana Pudding. (My friends call it “Manna Pudding.”) And yes, I said bowl of the spoon. There’s the tip, bowl, neck, and handle. Seems the spoon doesn’t have any originally named parts, and I suspect if questioned, it would sigh and explain by saying, “It’s complicated.”

This spoon hails from Asheville, a gift from Riley over a decade ago. There’s something about the weight of the wood and the relationship that Riley and Mama had that stirs up perfect pudding. And that’s the secret in the recipe – the stirring. While my people were God-fearing, church goers, they were also known to leave from the door they came in and hang a dead snake over the limb of an oak tree to conjure raindrops. I’ve loosened the grip that both religion and superstition held during my childhood, but I do follow the guiding principles of homemade BP. To create deliciousness, one must stand, unhurried and unworried, over a stove burner folding in sugar, cornstarch, salt; then, slowly add milk. The heat is low and maybe some blues or old school country serve as an auditory background. I stir side to side as I was taught, rather than swirling; breaking form feels somehow wrong. Cook and spoon must unite for the sorcery to happen.

I use a different spoon – heavier wood, shorter handle – to stir marinara sauce and grits. It was a gift from my friend, Tracy, and it reads, F*ing Delicious. That spoon wields the power of a magic wand. It’s not a gentle spoon, it’s a – let’s get it on – spoon. That spoon orders Alexa to play Barry White before the sauce even comes to a boil.

The other four wooden spoons in my arsenal are an army of average. I minimized kitchen utensils years ago when we moved to this house, so they aren’t useless, but they aren’t special either. They are indistinguishable and interchangeable in their roles. I suppose that there are people out there wondering, what is UP with the spoons? But it isn’t just the spoons, is it? It’s what the spoons do and how I feel when I use them.

stir / stər /

verb 1. move a spoon or other implement around in (a liquid or other substance) to mix it thoroughly; 2. move or cause to move slightly.

noun 1. a slight physical movement; 2. a commotion.

Each of these definitions make me grin. As much as I like brandishing cooking tools, I’m hip to the other meanings too. I crave the free dive into real conversation and emotion. Serve me generous helpings of art and poetry and beauty and laughter. Give me something real and raw and let’s dissect it, feeling all the feels. In our age of electronic connectivity, it seems easy to fake and hard to attain, this internal stirring. Destiny seems hell bent on returning us to Thoreau’s famous lines about the mass of us living lives of “quiet desperation,” except this time we’re scrolling through it. The moans of resignation echo soundless amidst the algorithm of the fleeting feed.

Then the grand finale of stir as a noun – is there anything better than a good commotion? Earlier this year, I had an astrology reading which noted my ascendent sign as Scorpio. It tickled me to learn that this personality tends to be one that “schemes.” Scheming and commotioning? Nirvanna. (Professional inventories call this trait: strategic.) But it’s the dang truth, I like to stir up a commotion and create shenanigans, all in the name of a good time, maybe fun-anigans should be a word.

No wonder I have top spoon contenders. I’m a stirrer to the essence of my being. I’m officially naming the wooden spoon my love utensil, because at the root of all of it, stirring requires movement and movement keeps our lives from sticking to the pot, from freezing in place with a bout with “quiet desperation.”

***

I spent a portion of my life accumulating, thinking that the volume of ingredients – money, objects, accolades, lists of friends, satiates hunger. Turns out that only a handful of those were needed and loved, and this crumb of knowing has made all the difference.

Even today, I could downsize a couple more spoons.

Bon Appetit.