The Wooden Spoon

Stirring, squelching, blending together
Round and round, rich brown flavours combine.
I anxiously watch, enthralled;
“Can I try? Can I try?” my high-pitched voice rings.
My mother steps aside, holds me up to the benchtop.
Small fingers curl around the worn, weathered wooden handle.
And I mix.

The bowl tips to the left.
Struggling, I attempt to shift it back: of course, in vain,
The spoon: my hunter’s rope, the bowl: a thrashing boar –
A resonating crash sounds in my ears.

Devastation clouds my overly shocked face.
Frustration builds up; I release it in an almighty scream.
Hot tears spill from my eyes.
This was my work! Now it lays destroyed…

My mother’s apron dries my tears,
She holds me close, cuddles away my grief.
The wooden spoon, layered in thick chocolate mix,
Is pressed into my warm, moist hands.

A new experiment; I slide it in my mouth
And discover the unimaginable pleasure and delight
Of tasting chocolate cake mix –
So enchanting, it vanquishes my grief.

I angle my focus to the brown-stained floor.
The bowl lies like my shattered dreams.
The tears flood back, pushing like a near-bursting pipe.
But I feel that wooden spoon in my hands
I savour the lasts swirls of chocolate in my mouth
And I send those tears back.