A CHOICE IN SPOONS

There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear

The nice distinction, yet to me ’tis clear.

The deep-bowled Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop

In ample draughts the thin, diluted soup,

Performs not well in those substantial things,

Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;

Where the strong labial muscles must embrace

The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space

With ease to enter and discharge the freight,

A bowl less concave, but still more dilate,

Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,

A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes.

Experienced feeders can alone impart

A rule so much above the lore of art.

These tuneful lips that thousand spoons have tried,

With just precision could the point decide,

Though not in song; the Muse but poorly shines

In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines;

Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,

Is that small section of a goose-egg shell,

Which in two equal portions shall divide

The distance from the center to the side.

Fear not to slaver; ‘tis no deadly sin;-

Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin

Suspend the ready napkin; or, like me,

Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;

Just in the zenith your wise head project,

Your full spoon, rising in a line direct,

Bold as bucket, heed no drops that fall,

The wide-mouthed bowl will surely catch them all!

   Joel Barlow
(1754-1812), The Hasty Pudding.