The Missing Spatula

How is it that a vital kitchen tool can disappear overnight? Last night, ready to turn the tilapia fillets browning in a non-stick skillet, I searched the utensil drawer for the spatula designed for non-stick surfaces. Not there, nor in any drawer in the kitchen. Not in the dishwasher. Not in the freezer (where occasionally missing objects turn up). Using a metal tool, I carefully turned the fillets, now somewhat browner than I had intended, and went on with dinner preparations.

Since then, Peter and I have done an exhaustive search of the kitchen with no luck. Did our errant tool get boxed up with the Christmas decorations? Or did it just disappear into an alternate universe inhabited by single socks, lost books, missing earrings, and misplaced bank statements? And, if so, will it return before I spend money to replace it?

When more elusive things disappear--a memory of a person, event, or place, for instance--I find that simply relaxing and letting go works. If I let my mind move on, the memory soon pops into my awareness. Seeking, searching, looking for something lost is not always the best approach. Sometimes it's best just to wait.

The Key Search

As soon as my bangs begin to impede my vision, I know it's time for a haircut. Saturday I ventured out to the neighborhood Great Clips for a trim. Things went well. Loretta was my stylist and we chatted about the changes the weather had made on our holiday plans. I paid, donned my hat and coat, and reached in my pocket for my keys. Not there. Not anywhere. Not in any pocket nor in the car nor under the car. Several customers joined in the search, both in the shop and the icy parking lot. When I removed my knit hat to call for help on my cell, I heard a faint jingle. "Are those your keys?" a customer asked, pointing to the floor. Yep. There they were. They'd caught on the yarn inside my hat and hid out there while I searched for them.

How did those keys get in my hat? I'm blaming it on the subzero weather.