Image: © morpethroad
This week’s task: Weave a tale from the perspective of an object, say something around your house, or within the broader world.
The name’s Woody. I’m a wooden spoon in Lucky’s utensil drawer. You know the one with the spoons and graters. My best mate the slotted spoon lives there along with Gyro the bottle opener and Knuckles the nut cracker.
I’ve had my face in more stews and casseroles over the years than you’ve had hot breakfasts. My face after ten years is showing its age, a bit mottled but with loads of character.
I’ve always been Lucky’s preferred spoon. I think it’s because I’m easy on the eye. Not every wooden spoon is easy on the eye. Some have that hard look about them like they’d rather be anywhere but in your hand stirring the gravy. Other spoons he’s bought over the years just can’t stand the pace of his kitchen. They come to an unhappy end, usually breaking in half, and so out they go. Good riddance I say, if you stand the heat in the kitchen then keep moving on. Though in their case it’s the compost.
Lucky is a simple guy, he cooks simple, but he cooks most nights. Some nights he doesn’t need me, and I get to stay with my friends all clean and tidy.
Other nights it’s a big production number, and I find myself in and out of a few pots and pans. I don’t mind, for me it all about being needed and doing the job.
I have a thing for when he tastes his cooking. He dips me into what he is preparing and when he puts me to his lips, man oh man, but I go all a flutter. I can never get over it, it makes me feel whole like my life’s purpose has just been realised. It’s a buzz every time.
Tonight, he’s doing some spaghetti sauce, I can see he’s chopped up a few vegies to go in the mix, I like a good spaghetti sauce I have to say.
Better be off, time to get to work, he needs me ‘cause these meals don’t cook themselves you know.