RIP My Wooden Friend

Many years ago, before I left home, I had a glory box filled with all the things that I would need when I married a prince and moved into a castle. There was the dinner set with the little country ducks around the rims. Why? That is actually a very reasonable question. And the answer is 'I dont know'. Maybe because it was 1987? That's my excuse for a lot of things. There was heirloom crystal, a set of silver cutlery, mixing bowls and a million tea towels. Pretty much nothing of any real use. Except a wooden spoon.

Of course, I didn't marry a prince but all my treasures came with me when I made my way out into the world. And all were unused except the wooden spoon. It was with me as I learned to cook - honey soy chicken wings with 2 minute noodles anyone? Time and time again it was packed into a box and moved with me or sat in the box at my mothers house while I travelled the world. I lost or gave away so many things over the years but that spoon was a constant in my kitchen.
Sure, I had other spoons over the years but every time I cooked, my fingers would instinctively seek out that particular spoon. Nothing else felt quite right in my hands. With time, the spoon grew beautiful. Smooth as marble and so full of love. It helped me cook every meal I made for S when we were starting our lives together, vegetable purees for my tiny sons, sauces, pasta and cakes. So very many cakes.
In honesty, I didn't realise how much I loved that spoon and possibly didn't treat it right - although I did rescue it from S's Secret Kitchen Drawer Downsize of '04. But now I think it should have had it's own special place in my kitchen. Not just shoved in the jar with all the other utensils. I put that spoon with a silicon spatula, for God's sake! I'm sorry.
Anyway, last night S was a bit cranky with the kids and was telling them that when he was little, he would get smacked with a wooden spoon and they were very lucky that didn't happen to them. To prove his point, he whacked my dear, dear spoon onto the counter.

And broke it's neck. I couldn't breathe. As tears welled up in my eyes, he said 'Hello? It's a wooden spoon. What are they? Like 89 cents?' I tried to explain what that spoon and I had been through together and he couldn't see that it wasn't just a spoon. And he didn't say sorry. I tried to point out that even he picked that spoon out of all the wooden spoons in the jar. Didn't that prove it's magic? Why didn't he picked the $20 beauty from Wheel and Barrow (because he would have got splinters from it, that's why. Shame on you Wheel and Barrow.)
He didn't say sorry. My spoon is gone. I may never cook again.