The Spatula Breakdown

This is a spatula. It’s white. But yesterday, while making Baked Pasta for dinner, something happened.

I must preface this story with some background so I can sort of justify myself , although it’s probably not likely:

I’ve had this spatula for as long as I can remember. My Mom had this spatula for as long as I can remember in her kitchen. It has followed me since I was 19 through numerous moves, sat in storage, and breathed the fresh air in it’s container with the rest of my kitchen utensils for all of my married life. It may be broken, it may be the ugly duckling compared to it’s stainless steel and wooden friends beside it, and it may be old, but it’s perfectly useful in any situation that calls for a spatula. It has recently also become a great drum stick for the little one on the kitchen floor with pot and pans at my feet while standing at the stove attempting to peacefully get another dinner on the table.

But yesterday something happened…

I had to stir pasta sauce, riccotta cheese, parsley, and garlic into the al dente pasta so I could put it into a dish and bake it off. Without a thought, I stirred the RED pasta sauce with my trusty, old WHITE spatula.

So what, right?

Big whoop.

If you were a normal person (which I never will be), you would laugh and think, “I shoulda thought of that happening. Oh well.”

But if you’re a hormonal, pregnant woman who can cry at the drop of the hat, this moment is a very big deal. I stood there with my newly PINK spatula and sobbed over the running sink water like my dog had just died. Sobbed. Like a baby.

The spatula will just never be the same.

I feel like I need to frame it or something.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m in the market for a new WHITE spatula so the trauma of the moment can finally dissipate.

Oh, the joys of pregnancy. Here’s to a roller coaster of a ride for the second trimester!

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2 thoughts on “The Spatula Breakdown

  1. I have a meat thermometer that use to be my grandmother’s, which she gave to my mom, who gave it to me when I moved out (after high school I think). Well this past Thanksgiving Adam & I were cooking a small turkey (it was just the 2 of us) and I went to check on the temperature. It wasn’t done yet, so I basted it, and then set the time for 7 minutes. 7 minutes later, when the timer started beeping, I opened up the oven to check out our masterpiece. Welp, our masterpiece looked awesome, but the melted family heirloom (maybe not in everyone’s book, but definitely in mine) was not quite so awesome. I had definitely left it in the turkey, which was definitely in the oven. I was SO upset. I remember just going upstairs and crying. And I’m not even pregnant! So at least you have an excuse. But nonetheless, I am very sorry to hear about your spatula. I know the feeling… ❤

    • Thanks for the story and for making me feel better! I’m glad I’m not alone in creating sentimental value for objects in the kitchen. ;0)

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