The other day I was at Mama’s house, digging through kitchen cabinets trying to find a cast iron skillet that had once been there, when I stumbled across a large blue glass jar filled with various utensils that Mama had long used. The slotted spoon, with a coated handle that she had once laid too close to a hot stove eye and melted it in a spot, brought back a tug of memory. Mama had used that spoon all of my life and many years before I was even born. Mama’s generation didn’t waste things. They were not a disposable society, looking to replace something good with something thought to be better. They made do with what they had as long as they had it. It was her potato masher that bought forth a hearty chuckle as I fingered it gently and appreciatively. About 15 years before Mama died, the plastic handle broke away, leaving the steel part but rendering it useless because it couldn’t be held in order to be used.