NOT WHAT THEY USED TO BE

--> Suspecting that his wife had a lover, but still having to be away for a day and a night, the very clever husband came up with an idea.
Under their bed, he placed a saucepan filled with milk, and above it, attached to the bottom of the bed, a wooden spoon. By his calculations, the weight of his wife shouldn't be enough for making the spoon reach the milk; but if she had company in bed, the spoon would get a white line, and the affair would be revealed.
So, the next day, as soon as he got home, he went to the bedroom and inspected the result of his plan...
The saucepan was filled with butter!

As many of you know if you are baseball fans, the hitters buy their own bats and have them made to their own specifications. They choose the weight, length and maybe even the wood, the barrel being of some tapered dimensions.

Recently I was cleaning out my kitchen canister that holds among other things ladles, whisks and wooden spoons. As I lifted up the spoon, and looked at the wood it was made from, my childhood immediately came back to me. I can remember Mom reaching for it in her drawer, raising it and chasing me around the dining room table, as I ran for my life.

Today’s spoons are NOT weapon grade anymore! One smack across the butt or over the head and the thing would snap in half for sure. They are no longer weapon grade!

Mom must have gotten in touch with Louisville Slugger and had her spoons made to spec. When it came down to do its dirty business, right before contact, there was a certain static in the air, then the snap of Mom’s wrist (It was all in the wrist) and contact, finalizing a display of displeasure to my senses and satisfaction to Moms.

Mom had different sizes according to the offense. If it was cursing, swearing or stalling, she took out Big Bertha, a kind of atomic stirrer, made for most grievous of offenses, then the artillery worked it’s way to lighter and shorter weaponry, all of it guaranteed to send the intended message and always ready for either my head or the pasta pot. After cutting me down in mid-stride, she would then announce: “Wait, just wait until your father gets home!”

Sometimes to mix it up, and make it interesting she would say: “I hope someday you have a child just like yourself!” That was more frightening than: “Wait, just wait until your father gets home!”

After years of intimidation and wild chases, I left the house and we retired the wooden spoons, taking Mom’s favorite: ‘Gentle Persuasion’ and mounting it on a plaque after we painted it gold. (All at her request)

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