There is a meme that pops up from time to time that says something about how by the time you are in your 30s, you have a favorite spatula.
And I do, well, did. A few days ago it broke, the flat part snapped right off at the handle in the pan. I yelled a guttural "No!" as I stared at it, this delightful utensil no longer functional. But it was much bigger than just broken plastic.
My mother had bought it for me. She had initially bought herself one and liked it so much she gave one to me and one to my sister. When I thought about it a few days later, I realized it was at the minimum 12 years old but probably 3-5 years older than that. It had a long good life for a plastic tool you dragged across a heated piece of metal but I was still gutted.
I remember in Year One (2016) realizing that one day everything my mother bought me would disappear. Things would get worn out and make their way to the garbage. Things would get lost. Things would break. The thought of it rang a deep bell of despair in my chest that reverberated through my bones. It echoed back and forth, the realization leaving a deep sad heat in my belly.
Everything she had seen in a store that sparked the thought "I think Leslie would like this" would be gone. I love buying gifts for others and I know my mama did too. Her propensity was deep and sometimes at Christmas she would admit to buying us more gifts but she was unable to find them and she'll send them along when she does.
When I looked at that spatula in two pieces, all of those Year One feelings came back. The world lost its color. There was no joy left. How could there be? How was I going to function when the world was over? I sat on my couch in a daze as I heard the Teams' ding from my computer.
Things, of course, calmed down with time and some Raspberry Lemonade (a beverage I used in 2016 to avoid booze). But it felt like a betrayal that those feelings are still there, deep inside lurking.
I know logically that even after seven years, grief is real and present and will be a companion the rest of my life. But those Year One feelings that constantly hit me day after day in 2016 felt as if they were long in the past. The gnawing heat that would start deep in my core and extended out to my clammy hands could still rear it's ugly head. And to be very honest, I'm very not comfortable with that truth.
All of this to say, anyone have a good spatula recommendation?