You’re putting a picture on here to show us a spoon? NEG. It just LOOKS like a spoon. And it sort of is. But it’s more than that: at least to one very important man in my life these past two weeks, it’s the Holy Grail of spoons.

About a month ago Mr. Bill dropped by one Saturday to talk about some red beans and rice he was fixing for us, a side dish for a wedding reception. He offered his big serving bucket, which sits in a water bath and keeps things hot; you don’t even have to stir. We said yes. His two big rectangular heavy-duty cafeteria pans, one for rice and one for beans. He threw in a ladle, a small pan to dip beans with from the heavy-duty pan to the Big Serving Bucket, two potholders…and this spoon.

We said yes. Thank you and yes.

“Now, you need to get this all back to me.”

“Yessir. For sure.”

“Now this spoon, I’ve had it for 50 years, and that’s for longer than I’ve had this ink pen,” he said.

“You’ve always been good at keeping up with stuff,” I said.

“Now, if you don’t get me this spoon back, I’ll have to kill you,” he said. I waited for him to smile. I am still waiting.

“You take a pretty hard-line stance on cutlery, don’t you,” I said.

“Let me correct myself,” he said. “You don’t HAVE to bring it back. But if you don’t, I’ll have to kill you.”

I told him I’d bring it back. For sure. Yes. Spoon. Back to you. Thank you.

On game day, we got it all out to the venue. After the last bean-eater and cake-cutter had left the property, my friends helped gather that and more up, then stuff it into various cars and SUVs. When we unpacked and cleaned the next morning, no potholders and worse, no spoon.

I said something along the lines of “MY GOD!?”

A couple of phone calls and it was suspected that the caterer, not knowing he was putting a man’s life on the line, unwittingly had PROBABLY taken the absent items. He’d look and see. Tomorrow or Tuesday. “LORDY!,” is the type word you say when your life hangs in the balance.

Tuesday at my house, in a plastic grocery sack, the Prodigal Spoon and Potholders were found returned. So while the reception unofficially ended on a Saturday night around 9, it didn’t officially end until around 10:20 the following Wednesday morning, when I returned it to Mr. Bill, and because of that, I have lived to tell the story.

(P.S.: His red beans and rice were to die for…)

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