Whose World Is It?

Once upon a drawer, nestled among the cushioned liners of a moderately upscale kitchen, lived a spoon named Kezo. Kezo wasn’t particularly shiny, nor did he have artisanal etchings or an ergonomic handle. But he was solid, dependable; and - by all accounts - content.

For decades, Kezo had stirred soups, cradled cereals, and comforted toddlers with soft bites of mashed banana. He believed in kindness, fairness, and letting everyone find their place in the cutlery tray.

So when forks began identifying as spoons, Kezo was one of the first to say, “Welcome! There’s plenty of space for everyone!” When butter knives started hosting poetry nights and declaring themselves philosophical spreaders, Kezo applauded their journey of self-expression.

”I mean, who am I to judge?” He often said to the salad tongs. “If a melon baller wants to be a ladle, more power to them. Let everyone scoop how they scoop.”

But then came The Changes.

It started subtly. Fewer calls for Kezo at the table. The soups went sippable. Yogurt became drinkable. The rise of smoothie culture, and therefore straws, nearly broke his handle.

One morning, the drawer buzzed with excitement. A new utensil had arrived. She was sleek, multi-pronged, and curvaceous in a confusing way.

”I’m a spork,” she purred. “Part spoon. Part fork. All purpose.”

Kezo blinked. “But… why?”

”Oh Kezo,” whispered the cheese grater condescendingly. “She’s evolved. You’re just… classic.”

Classic? Classic was one faded decal away from obsolete. 

Suddenly, Kezo’s whole world tilted. He who had championed diversity now found himself the outmoded face of utensil privilege. No one wanted to hear him reminisce about the golden age of soup. The measuring spoons called him a relic. The spatula accused him of utensil-normativity. 

He tried to speak up. Once. During a cutlery council meeting, he raised his handle and said, “Is it possible that, in our excitement for change, we’re forgetting the value of - well - being a spoon?”

The silence was sharp enough to slice butter straight from the fridge.

”Check your scoop privilege,” muttered a pastry brush.

Kezo retreated into the drawer. Alone. Misunderstood. Slightly sticky. Attempting to keep the peace.

But peace was not always easy to keep in the drawer.

Lately, tensions had boiled over between the steak knives and butter knives.

It started with an argument about identity, then territory - who belonged on the far left of the tray divider. The steak knives insisted it was their ancestral edge, always meant for the sharp objects required to cut things. While the butter knives claimed though they identified as philosophical spreaders, they’d been there for decades. And besides, “We used to and could continue to cut things, but we have higher ambition!”

Soon, every mealtime came with murmurs and mutterings. The spatulas stopped speaking to the carving forks. A whisk tried to mediate but was dismissed as “too scrambled to take seriously.”

One serrated bread knife gave an impassioned speech that ended with a dramatic clatter, declaring, “If you’re not with us, you’re dull, and inconsequential.”

The teaspoon faction murmured their discomfort. “It’s just… everyone’s so angry. Can’t we just agree that cutting and spreading both have merit?”

But no one wanted nuance. They wanted victory.

And Kezo - gentle, earnest Kezo - was heartbroken.

He tried to speak. “We all came from the same packaging. We were all nestled in foam together. Don’t you remember? We served meals together! Isn’t that more important than which edge you rest on?”

But the drawer had become too loud, too stubborn, too performative, too divided. Each utensil now tied its whole self-worth to its stance.

”Neutrality is violence,” snapped a steak knife.

”Moderation is complicity,” sneered a teaspoon.

”You always were a centrist stirrer,” spat someone else.

So Kezo stopped trying to be heard.

He polished his bowl. He practiced mindfulness over minestrone. He reminded himself that being a spoon was not just about serving others - but knowing when not to scrape and clash.

He mourned the drawer, but he didn’t give up hope. And over time, something small but wonderful happened.

Kezo found joy in the little things: the perfect swirl of honey in tea, the tender hold of a single scoop of rice. He took pride in his gentle curves, in his quiet utility. He stopped trying to prove his worth to the rest of the drawer and started re-learning what it meant to just be Kezo.

He stirred. He ladled. He occasionally moonlighted as a catapult for peas. He even took up painting - abstract portraits on tiny squares of napkin.

The world remained loud and ever-changing. Some of the changes thrilled him. Some baffled him. Some just weren’t for him - and that was okay.

Because Kezo had remembered something essential: he didn’t have to stir every pot. Just the ones he was made for. 

Ⓒ May 2025. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.