A Split Second With The Spatula

Last night, I was putting away dinner. Spaghetti. The spoon wasn't really managing to get the stuck to the side pieces of sauce, so I grabbed the spatula and set to sliding it around the edges of the pot. Like magic, all the bits and pieces piled into a serving size pile of spaghetti and in an instant, the pot was almost clean enough to not even rinse before stacking.

And in the few seconds scraping with the spatula, my grandma Mirly was right there beside me, showing me just how to scrape the last bit from the bowl. "In my day, we didn't let anything go to waste," she would say as she slowly, meticulously got every last drip of batter, onion sliver, soup, meat, or sauce.

 I could see her and smell her and hear her. She was spry and alert. Her glasses perched slightly awkwardly but also perfectly and her slow and deliberate movements made my quick, won't slow down movements seem awkward and small. But I loved to be in the kitchen with her. That is where I could be right beside her and work with her and talk with her. She had a lot of advice to give. I think a lot went in one ear and out the other, but I carry morsels and she is so much with me.



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