I have started getting feelings for my spoons. I blame Tim Hayward, restaurant critic for the Financial Times, for this. He wrote a brilliant piece last week about his search for the perfect spoon. At first glance this was a bit random, even for me. But before long I was with him all the way in his quest for the spoon of his dreams, a spoon of just the right depth, size, shape, length and other variables.
I surveyed my spoon drawer and considered my feelings. I was disappointed to see I have no fewer than 17 wooden spoons. Disappointed because this implies a certain shallowness, as if I’m some kind of spoon lothario, collecting notches on my bedpost, focusing on quantity rather than quality. Stirring without love is just exercise, after all. But sorting through them, I realised I do have a favourite. It’s more of a spatula than a spoon, but it suits me very well. I had always looked out for it without knowing I was doing so and felt a twinge of disappointment if it didn’t come to hand. If ever I lost it for good, I now understood, I would miss it for ever.
