In Edward Lear’s poem “The Owl and the Pussycat”, the titular couple celebrate their marriage with a dinner of mince and slices of quince, which they consume with the aid of something called a “runcible spoon.” As a child I remember being fascinated by this mysterious spoon, which could at once scoop up minced beef and spike slices of quince. It sounded like the perfect utensil.
It turns out that Lear entirely made up the “runcible spoon”, and that his only illustration of it looks more like a ladle. Nonetheless, the seed of my fascination with sporks had been planted. I began to incessantly bother my parents about our family’s total failure to provide me with a single runcible spoon of my own.
These days, I am handsomely outfitted when it comes to sporks. I have literal dozens, scattered around my garage, kitchen, office, and backpack. While I am more than happy to sleep on a piece of construction Tyvek under a tarp, and I quiver at the thought of having to find new boots when my Vasque Sierras eventually die, I have somehow convinced myself that I need a spork for every possible situation.
The thing about sporks is that they’re cheap enough and small enough to just give a new one a try, but…