The Coffee Spoon
The home I grew up in was very stable. There were many things that remained constant throughout. This is the story of one of them.
My parents were coffee drinkers. My dad almost drank nothing else. To think I didn’t become an undying fan of this magical liquid until I was probably 30 is crazy.
In fact, this morning I am drinking from a coffee mug of mine I found at my parents’ home as we’ve been preparing for a small estate sale. This would be the first time I’ve had coffee from said mug which has been put away for 20 years.
So, coffee and all it’s accoutrements were a constant at home. I can even remember the small glass bottle of saccharin that sat near the sugar bowl. I also confiscated said sugar bowl.
As artificial sweeteners evolved, we had them all: Sweet and Low, Splenda, and finally, Stevia.
The coffee makers, well-worn, also changed. We found two vintage Corning percolators in the back of cabinets and packed away with other kitchenwares of yesteryear.
Over the years, there were brewers, at least one Keurig, and finally this carafe-less thing that dispensed 1 cup at a time. Speaking of carafes, we found one where you could brew a pot of coffee, put it in the carafe to keep it hot, and brew another. You know, for those kind of days.
Through all the iterations, one thing was constant, the coffee spoon.
There’s nothing remarkable about it. It’s a plain, stainless, tea spoon. The bowl is a little smaller and the handle is a little longer than a regular teaspoon.
It served one purpose: to stir coffee, hence the name I’ve given it, the coffee spoon. It lived upside down on the counter near the coffeemaker, sugar, and other effects on a paper towel folded into a square.
In earlier years, the spoon stained the paper towel squares with semi-circular coffee stains until they were thrown away and a clean one was deployed.
Later, Mom would rinse the spoon after stirring the coffee before placing it on the paper towel. She also had a drawer of pre-folded paper towels waiting their turns to support the busy coffee spoon.
The only time the spoon left its paper towel was to do its job or be washed.
The coffee flowed at all hours. Dad drank coffee all day. When guests came over, they were offered coffee. Coffee wrapped up Friday evenings with my brother and sister-in-law after weekly trips to nearby Winston-Salem.
My ears ache to hear the familiar sound of the coffee spoon stirring a myriad of favorite mugs over the years. Stoneware mugs always offered a noisier mix than their regular ceramic counterparts.
There were a few spoons exactly like the coffee spoon, but they were never THE coffee spoon. When we came across the coffee spoon while organizing for the estate sale, it was unquestionably THE spoon.
How did I know?
The end of the bowl, just off center, was polished and slightly flattened from decades of stirring coffee, thousands and thousands of cups of coffee.
And so, it came to live with me where I’m reminded of it all each time I pull it from the drawer.
Yes, I remember it. Just an unremarkable, plain, stainless tea spoon. One of a thousand tiny puzzle pieces that compose our shared memories. Building the unique picture of our childhood, the places we lived, the people who raised us, and weaving the fabric of our character, and very core of our beings.