The Desk Chair: Spooning

Last week, something amazing happened in the kitchen. 

For some reason, this office seems to have a plethora of over-sized spoons. You know the kind: too small to be a serving utensil, but somehow big enough to make it look like your yogurt has shrunk. So I assumed the gentleman determinedly rifling through the silverware drawer was trying to locate one of the few, illusive normal spoons. When I said as much, I discovered that he was, in fact, looking for his favorite spoon. A spoon unrivaled in modern design. A spoon praised (by this guy) for it's weight, balance, and vaguely Japanese decoration. When at last he found it and showed it to me, I realized with alarm...

...it was my spoon. 

Well, technically it's my roommate David's spoon. I brought it to work a while back and forgot about it after putting it in the dishwasher. Of course, I made the mistake of mentioning this to Spoon Guy (new nickname) and we had to have a whole awkward exchange about whether or not I wanted it back. "No, no! Please, just keep it, " I said, assuring him we had about fifty more just like it. Apparently I don't have a problem playing fast and loose with David's possessions. Hopefully it's not some rare set of spoons that's been passed down for generations. 

I happen to know, now, thanks to Spoon Guy, that the random spoon in your office could, in fact, be valuable. For example, he once found a lovely stainless steel spoon in the kitchen that struck his fancy. A collector of such things, he researched its resale value and discovered it was worth about $65. A single spoon. $65. Being an upstanding gentleman, Spoon Guy asked around the office, but nobody claimed it. 

The moral of the story is this: run to your nearest shared kitchen space and find a valuable spoon of your own! (And don't tell David I gave his away.)