As a little girl, I watched my father make vegetable soup.
He chopped onions, celery, carrots,
peeled and cut up potatoes, ladled tomatoes,
added sweet corn, broccoli, peas.
McCormick tins came down from the shelf:
salt, pepper, thyme, marjoram, and dry green bay leaves!
 
He stirred this wonder with a long wooden spoon,
inherited from his mother.
Smooth to his hand, cracked a little at the stirring edge,
he drummed the 15" spoon off the side of the kettle.
 
My grandma was gone from me at age 3.
Her spoon became a favorite kitchen sight.
When it was brought out from the drawer,  
I knew soup was coming!
 
That spoon now has a place of honor on my counter.
It towers over other utensils in a red filagree container.
The spoon can chat with the flour canister next to it,
exchange culinary advice with long-stemmed garlic bulbs.
My grandma's spoon gives advice to the new bamboo tongs,
urges a smaller wooden spoon to stand erect.
 
History is ladled from this spoon.
I can visualize my father and his brother
standing at the woodstove, asking when the soup will be done.
My daughters gather around me with the same question.  


This poem first appeared in the anthology, Herbs & Spices, (Highland Park Poetry, 2023).
Used here with permission.