An Ode to the Ordinary

Last weekend, I got to go to a writing group.  We've been together for 20 years, maybe more.  Some of us are in our 60s now, some of us are a little older.  All women, all fabulous, fabulous cooks. A lot of our meals are singular, creative, and vibrant.  The real reason for our longevity.  Our writing prompt this weekend:  write an ode to an entirely ordinary object.  Here goes:

You only need three things to
achieve good cooking,
a sharp knife,
a cast-iron skillet,
a wooden spoon.

If I had to choose,
I'd choose all three.

But the most enduring, endearing
is a wooden spoon,
worn smooth with
decades of deep stirring,
sometimes with the heat
turned up  high.

It's a miraculous chemistry,
cooking is, but it bears
a watching.

Every pot I've burned 
has come at the behest
of distraction,
when I've wandered 
off just before the flames.

Because I had to peel
the cat off the piano,
or some fun was to be had,
so I had it. 
or a dream was Whistling
Dixie.
Maybe there was a good 
idea, fierce enough to require
attention and, maybe, consternation.

And then the fire alarm went off.

It'll take weeks to get the pot
whipped back into shape.
But the spoon is fine as it is,
coming through a burning or a boiling,
back for more.