It may simply look like a wooden spoon, sure. You wouldn’t be crazy to think that. But you’d be wrong.
It’s handle was thick; sturdy and solid, it gave control to the flimsy, tedious process of stirring. It’s wide face, cupped enough to provide necessary currents, gave life to dried rice, moving, constantly moving, the power to sift and dance and swirl. It was more than a wooden spoon. It was an agent of change, perfect for turning rice into risotto through the slow, delicate process.
Pour. Stir. Pour. Stir. It sat idle only long enough to allow for a bit of liquid.
It was hefty. It felt comfortable. It was perfect.
That is, it was until Becket found it. A few minutes of gnawing and several slivers later, it had become old news, left abandoned as he turned his attention to another bone.
Some people might say, “Just get another one.” But then again, it wasn’t just a wooden spoon. Which makes it painfully obvious how much some people don’t understand.