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Every time I reach into my container of L’Elegance toothpicks, I feel a little twinge.
As I withdraw one from its cylinder, I admire its extra-long shape. And its blunted end. And the three brazen notches that are said to help your grip, but are really just showing off. Who knew a toothpick could be so damn sexy?
I can’t bring myself to use them for menial tasks such as sandwich construction because that would be beneath them. These are L’Elegance toothpicks, they should not have to see the inside of a club sandwich.
I treat these glorified splinters with the respect they deserve. If I use one to test whether a cake is done, I lick off the crumbs and dry it so that I don’t waste another for the same purpose. If I scrape some dust out of my phone’s charging port, I find other detailing opportunities around the house until I snap it in half—this takes quite a while.
It is an unusual thing, I admit, to hold toothpicks in such high regard.
But let’s get one thing straight: Even if I don't fully understand why it's hard to let go of a toothpick, I know that I like to feel sad when I do.
Years ago my mom gifted me a larger, much more precious splinter in the form of a wooden stirring spoon. It resembled a typical roux spoon: average length, a gentle tapered handle, and a thick head that flattened to glide along the flat bottom of a pot.
But unlike its peers, this utensil had a considerable weight and density to it. I could tell, even before using it, that someone put effort into carving it. I’ve put this spoon to work every single day for the last ten years. It’s broken up ground beef for tacos and stirred roux for gumbos. It’s killed one or two flies and drummed many a syncopated beat on the lid of my Dutch oven.
My former roommate, Kellan, who suffered through some of my cooking experiments in these post-grad days, moved into a new house a few years ago. I thought it would be meaningful to gift him one just like it.
I talked to my mom, then the shopkeeper she bought it from. She told me about its maker, a carver named Steve Stirling from Franklin, Louisiana. He salvaged Victorian bedposts and floorboards and crafted them into spoons, rolling pins, muddlers, and other kitchenware.
I sent Steve an Instagram message, told him how much his spoon meant to me, and got his story in return. He had only three pieces left in his collection. A stroke he suffered years earlier made it difficult, or impossible, to carve new tools.
Nevertheless, I had my choice of the mahogany, walnut, cypress, or all three (I bought two for $80). The one I kept, my back-up, sits safely under a raft of mass-produced utensils in a kitchen drawer.
I like the feeling of loving an inanimate object so much that I keep a spare. I’ve held onto that chunk of wood through ten years of learning to cook, falling in love, and growing a family.
Small, nice things can have that power.
Going even further back, I met another distinctive character plying his trade in the “South’s Largest Hat Store.” Sam Meyer, owner and proprietor of Meyer the Hatter, was pushing 90 when I first met him.
My friends and I were home for summer break and killing time before a movie downtown. I’d walked past Meyer’s window before, and something about me was drawn to all those hats on display. The fedoras and homburgs and skimmers looked like they belonged in the costume department of a Great Gatsby production.
I approached Sam with a bleach-white safari hat in hand. It had an arched brim and black ribbon that wrapped around the base of the crown.
“This is the Gulfport,” he said, as he took it into his hands. “I designed this hat for the 1963 season.”
It felt disorienting to hold something newly made, yet historic, while standing before its creator. I knew I was leaving with this hat even before I asked where I could possibly wear it.
“Well, you go to the pool, don’t you? You go to festivals and sporting events. You go outside.”
I wore it out of the store, and when my brother’s dog tore it to shreds a couple of years later, I felt a little empty until I returned to see Sam for a replacement—a brown woven Panama that I wear to this day.
Between the hats, the spoons, and the toothpicks, you’d think I commit enough emotional investment to inanimate objects, but those are really just the start. As I began to think about these things I hold dear, I took a walk around the house to see what else struck me.
There’s the risograph calendar of colorful Louisiana fruits whose scribbled events are replaced year after year by its even-more-colorful successor. The perfect, pyramid-shaped crystals of Maldon sea salt flakes that I sprinkle atop every new cooking project. And the bag of special occasion pencils—those gorgeous Blackwings that sit, mostly unsharpened, in a pouch I’ve owned since the third grade.
Each, I found, has two things in common. The object was made with integrity. And it has a story, even if it’s a single moment.
Cataloging them on a page felt like reading a stack of notes from previous versions of me. This is part of you, they say. Maybe part of who you are now, or part of who you aspire to be. And that’s no small thing.
Editor’s note: Sam still works the floor at Meyer the Hatter. He is 101 now. Go and see him for a story and a hat. And Steve Stirling posted on his Facebook page earlier this year that he was carving again. If it’s true, do yourself a favor, and get a spoon. Diamond L’Elegance toothpicks are available in a pack of 250 for less than $4.00.