A few weeks ago, in the midst of a nesting frenzy, I reorganized the utensil drawer. I decided it was a necessity after being refused entry into said drawer during an attempt to retrieve the can opener for a soup-n-sandwich lunch.
Out came the stuffs. The every day type things were in a jumble near the front for obvious reasons and the weird once-in-a-while to what's-this-thing-for items were tangled together in the back.
Clutching one another like survivors of a culinary apocalypse were a cheese grater (it comes grated in the bag these days, folks), a garlic press, a corkscrew (see you in a few months, old pal), and an implement designed for the sole purpose of opening jars. The jar opener might actually be handy if I didn't have a husband for that sort of thing.
All lined up on the kitchen counter was my arsenal of equipment. The order of it made sense to me, but I was one of those girls who used to rotate stuffed animals in the bed as a kid so everyone got a chance to sleep next to me. Yeah. I know. I was pretty popular.
Anyway, some were plastic, some were stainless, but all of them were monochromatic. And quite ugly. I can see why people have drawers for this kind of thing. Black, silver, the one audaciously red corkscrew, and then I saw it. The one beautiful thing in that mangled mess of industrial, hard-edged appliances... the "kool-aid" spoon.
I don't know if everyone has one. I imagine it's not really a staple in the drawers of a swingin' bachelor pad or hoity-toity mansion. But growing up, it was one of the only items in the drawer used on a daily basis at my house. What with the comings and goings of neighborhood kids, lemonade sipping friends, and iced-tea addicted moms there was not a summer day (especially) that the kool-aid spoon didn't see the bottom of the sink basin and the bottom of a pitcher at least one time in an afternoon. This exact spoon stirred sweetness into all of the summers I can remember and here I had been just tossing it in the drawer with the rest of the culinary conscripts.
Among the spatulas and cold and hard icecream scoop, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the kool-aid spoon. Like the stuffed animal near the end of the rotation, I wanted to give it a place where it could shine and be proud of it's significance in our lives. Her significance, I should say. She is yellowish-white with seventies flowers on her handle and beautiful slender slots in her bowl. There's no way kool-aid spoon is a male.
So I gave her a place in the tin of important cooking stuffs directly next to the stove where she can breathe fresh air and bathe in the sunlight of the summers and winters alike. No more will I shut her in the dark with the cold steel and furrowed foam drawer liner that's always squished up in the back. She will be easily accessed and enjoyed by all who lay eyes or hand on her.
And her name will be Crystal. Miss Crystal Light, the blushing beauty of the kitchen utensils and the only one bold enough to wear pink all year around.
Never to be tossed in a garage sale or thrift store donation box, but instead to be inherited by my children and their children's children to stir the powdered refreshments of the future and make memories for generations to come.
(cue epic end-sounding music)