And ducked.
Mom was a perfectionist when she involved herself, she
involved herself. For instance, the wooden spoon. Mom took purchasing a wooden
spoon seriously. It had to be at least oak, long enough to catch a culprit and
built to last.
Mom was not only fussy about the type of wood, but the grain
had to run a certain way, the spoon portion smooth with the bowl bottom at its
thickest. It needed to be aerodynamic and able to cut into space while she was
in the chase.
Grip was critical, it had to be thick and tapered from the
center out to either the end or toward the bowl, yet it had to fit her hand
comfortably.
But her true test was when she applied it. I was the
Bonneville Flats of Mom's wooden spoons, even after I married, she would come
over, if she had a wooden box with a lid, not unlike a pool player with his own
cue stick, and test it out on my head. We all got excited if it passed the
test, well, not everyone.
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