Silver spoons and rubber scrapers

Mom got the mileage (and more) out of her rubber scrapers

Some kids are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, but I was raised on a rubber scraper (or “spatula,” as it is commonly known). I was born the twelfth of thirteen children, so my mom’s job of feeding her big brood was ever with her. No sooner would she finish cooking and serving and cleaning up after one meal than it was time to start making another meal. 

We were not wealthy, but Mom was a fabulous cook, homemaker, and manager, and she made sure we ate well and had enough. By the time I came along, she made the daily, gargantuan task of feeding us look pretty easy, but it was no small feat.

In fact, it took very careful planning and, it turns out, even some math skills. I remember flipping through her faded recipe cards and seeing, scratched in the margins, her calculations of how much each ingredient cost. I mean, who figures out the cost of a cup of flour today?

Ingredients were not the only thing well accounted for in our house. Rubber scrapers themselves were at a premium. We never seemed to have enough because the rubber would tear and the handles were always breaking, probably from Mom pushing them beyond their limits. She was resourceful, nonetheless. So, instead of tossing out the broken ones, she would replace their handles with ordinary table knives, and on she’d go, scraping her bowls and feeding her babies.

I have many warm memories of hanging around the kitchen where I’d watch Mom whiz from this counter to that cupboard, to the refrigerator, and back again, as she whipped up meals and treats. I especially liked the treats. If I timed things just right, I could elbow out a brother or two and be awarded the rubber scraper. 

My stomach wasn’t the only thing that got fed while licking the rubber scraper, either. A captive audience, I was also nourished by Mom’s good humor and insights, her enthusiasm for learning, and her deep love of people and of God.

Though my budget has never had to stretch as far as Mom’s had to, I still can’t resist scraping a dish for all it’s worth. It seems almost criminal to leave perfectly good food behind. Besides, you’d be amazed at how much you can scrape out of a bowl that looks mostly clean. Sometimes it’s a little more food, and other times it’s a little more conversation.