One of my favorite spots in a thrift store is the area for kitchen utensils — forks, knives, bowls. I am drawn often to wooden spoons and other wooden tools.
I spent $10 once on a massive wooden rolling pin. As a Budget Vogue fashionista, I had visions of myself using that rolling pin to create amazing French pastries, elegant breads, astounding doughs.
Truth be told, I’ve not used it yet, but I have hope. J’espere.
Wooden spoons, I do use. I find them beautiful if seasoned to turn eggs, to stir soups, to fold in cheese. There is something about using wood to bake that feels very primitive, basic, primordial. When I stir, I imagine my ancestors around a cauldron on a fire, eating meat right out of the flames.
I have a wooden spoon I use only on Thanksgiving. I told my niece once it was used at the first Thanksgiving to stir the mashed potatoes. She believed me. I laugh when I hold the handle and toss the spuds onto a plate. Wood can bring joy, is timeless and lasting.
Growing up, my mother ordered a spoon from the Galloping Gourmet; when it arrived it had “GG” emblazoned on the handle. I remember the day it joined our kitchen; she was so excited: a new spoon, a new wooden one.
Perhaps that is why I buy the wood; it brings me back to basics, to a time when getting a spoon in the mail was a big deal — especially one with the initials “GG.” We were living large.
I keep that massive rolling pin out on my counter. It’s ready to do some serious rolling, some serious flattening of dough — or people — should the moment arise. In the meantime, the handles of those spoons, those wooden spoons bring joy, bring this Budget Vogue fashionista a glorious moment of pause.
Everything is all OK when we’ve got enough wood.