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Slowly with a wooden spoon

a short-story about nostalgia, magic and mindfulness from one kitchen utensil and two simple ingredients

By Sarah PretoriusPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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Slowly with a wooden spoon
Photo by Andrew George on Unsplash

Chop, chop, chop.

Her eyes start to water, so she looks away from the onions and inhales as the fat droplets slide down her cheeks and onto her apron.

After grabbing a dishtowel and dabbing her eyes, she continues to chop.

Chop, chop, chop.

Finally, the onions are as fine as she can make them. She uses the blade of her knife to slide them across the time-worn wooden board to make room for what was next. The garlic. She snaps two bulbous portions off of the clove and cuts off the ends.

Then she strips away their delicate skin. As in life, timing in the kitchen is essential. Timing, one of the golden rules passed down to her. In one fluid motion she lights the gas stove, grabs a skillet from overhead and places it atop the steady flame. In the warming skillet goes a generous pour of olive oil and a knob of butter. It’s here that she pauses briefly to watch the two dance, swirl and melt into one another.

Chop, chop, chop, chop.

Over and over she runs her knife through the tenderized pieces of garlic. Smaller and smaller those pieces become, until they are almost paste-like. Smooth, with a bit of texture. Again, with the blade of her knife she carefully slides the garlic and the onions onto the knife’s flat heel. It all goes into the skillet. This was her favorite part. From the moment the onions and garlic hit the hot pan, their savory, mouth-watering aroma expand and fill every part of her kitchen.

To the left of the metallic, six-burner Italian stove is the drawer with large stainless steel utensils. Without looking, she opens the drawer and takes out her favorite wooden spoon, the one that had once belonged to her father.

She had watched her father carefully prepare a thousand loving meals with this spoon. But years ago when she left home he had readily parted with it when she timidly asked if she could take it with her. That was part of her attachment. All the memories of cooking side-by-side with her father, those many happy times chatting around the stove, and then gathering around the table.

The spoon was a small token of her childhood, of her family, of a life that seemed so far away now. She had crossed oceans with this wooden spoon, sure that no other metal or plastic spatula could do the job quite as well. Stirring slowly, she coats the onions and garlic in the butter and the olive oil until they give off a golden sheen.

Slowly, she lets the wooden spoon indulge in the delight of this transformation.

Slowly, she stirs the wooden spoon in one direction and then the other.

This was her therapy.

How many times had she done this before?

It was as natural and as automatic as brushing her teeth or washing her face in the morning.

The simple joy of sautéing these two ingredients together was her chance to tune out the world around her.

To be silent and focus on doing one task and one task alone. To be present and mindful.

The steps were simple, and the process straightforward.

No real culinary technique was needed; but she liked to think that a certain level of skill, attention to detail or at the very least, respect and appreciation for the ingredients, and the process was required.

Onions and garlic. Chopped. Butter and olive oil, in equal measure.

A heated skillet with a bit of stirring and time... and you had a gastronomic world of possibilities.

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About the Creator

Sarah Pretorius

poet, writer & altruist

believe in the good in people

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