Three Spoons

You know how some stories start small, the kind you’d miss if you blinked? The tale of my three missing spoons is exactly that. It began on a Wednesday evening, or maybe Thursday afternoon (the timeline is as foggy but its not even relevant), when I reached for the spoon the one I use for have my soup or serve food to my plate and it simply wasn’t there. It used to be a set of four spoons and now I see only one.

Not a disaster, not even a crisis, but a small cosmic inconvenience: three spoons, all alike in stainless-steel dignity, vanished from my cutlery drawer without a trace. It was as if I had imagined their existence this whole time. If so what else is not real in my world that I assume to be. I looked in all the normal places, sink, dishwasher, the black hole of the utensil caddy. Nothing. They weren’t in the strainer (where spoons sometimes hang out if you’re in a rush to dry dishes), nor were they hidden in some pot in the cabinet.

The thing is, these weren’t just any spoons. These were the everyday warriors, the ones weathered by a thousand lunch breaks and dinner rushes, the ones that have served me well for many years. They have the light, reassuring curve, the proper weight and heft, a groove that fit my thumb just so. You know the spoons I’m talking about. Not the shiny newcomers or the “nice for guests” set still nestled in their cardboard box, but those three that made their way into breakfast bowls and soup pots whether you were happy or hurried.

By the weekend, I had exhausted all my options as far as recovering them and called them lost for good. I found myself using those backup spoons that were never perfect for the job but could pull it off in a pinch. Each time I use them, I miss what I have irretrievably lost even more. It's a pity I have no recollection of their provenance because they've been such a fixture and forever. They have left tiny yet palpable gap in the rhythm of the everyday, a reminder that some small kitchen  mysteries are destined never to be solved.