a ladle story

I got my daughter a soup pot for Christmas last year. I had an image in my mind of the perfect soup pot for a single 20-something who likes to make a week's worth of soup on the weekends. It should be smaller than either of my soup pots, with a heavy bottom so that the soup wouldn't burn. It should be beautiful in its simplicity, well-proportioned with handles that make it easy to stir, to scrape out, and to clean.

I am often disappointed by reality when I have this perfect image in my mind. I go to a reliable store where I have found many beautiful tools and look at their selection. If I can't find what I want, I ask, and they lead me back to show me the too-big pots with thin bottoms and barely-welded handles.

That is not what I want for my child. I want a simple soup pot that can be a trusted friend through my daughter's life. I want a soup pot that whispers love and care to her every time she uses it, a soup pot that makes her life easier in difficult times.

I finally found the paragon of soup pots, and it made beautiful soup for my daughter through a winter of record storms.

In the autumn, my daughter said that she loved the soup pot, but that she wished she had a ladle to go with it.

After Thanksgiving, I embarked on the search for the perfect ladle. I had its twin in a drawer in my kitchen. All I had to do, I thought, was to find one just like mine.

I visited store after store, looking for that ladle. At every store, I found crappy black plastic ladles. At a few, I found flimsy metal ladles in awkward shapes.

Cheap tools are okay if you don't use them very often, or if they fill a function that's not that important. When you do the same task over and over, though, your tools take on greater importance. Dull knives, inadequate scrub brushes, and underpowered appliances can turn a humdrum chore into a major ordeal.

I debated whether ladles are that important. Perhaps a flimsy, inadequate ladle was better than no ladle at all. It could be replaced with better quality later, when the perfect ladle presented itself.

And yet, and yet, once you have a bad tool, it's difficult to justify replacing it with a better one. I struggled for decades with the Food Processor from Hell before getting a new one. Did I want to gift my daughter with an inferior ladle that would annoy her every time she served soup?

Finally, at a high-end kitchen store, I found the perfect ladle. It was much nicer than my ladle. It was forged of a single piece and had a turned lip that promised to serve soup beautifully. It was lovely to behold. It balanced exquisitely in my hand, and I could swing it easily from a single finger.

When I looked at the price tag, I had second and then third thoughts. Could I justify spending that kind of money on a tool that serves a single function, even one that has been designed with such care and built to last?

I eventually decided in favor of the ladle. I declined a bag and left the store with the ladle swinging on one finger. It was dazzling in the sunshine. I walked back to my car slowly, enjoying the feel of the ladle.

A man approached, on the other side of the street, walking in the other direction.

"I envy you your ladle," he called across the street, "I have a ladle, but it's a crappy black plastic one."

"It's for my daughter," I replied, and briefly recounted the search for this ladle and how I had balked at the price.

"She will love it," he assured me, and continued up the street.

I imagine him going to that kitchen store and buying his own perfect ladle.

My misgivings had vanished.