Black Plastic Spoons

Health. 500 words, 2 minute read. With Claude Sonnet.

Elizabeth froze, spatula suspended mid-sort, her fingertip tracing a web of pale scratches across its surface. Around her, the January sunshine illuminated their kitchen counter, now covered in neat rows of cooking implements – the annual New Year's organization ritual in full swing.

"Carl?" She kept her voice casual, but her husband glanced up from his task of alphabetizing their spice rack – his own interpretation of "getting organized."

"Hmm?" He twisted the cap back on the cumin.

"Come look at this." She tilted the spatula, catching the light. Tiny black flecks dusted the counter beneath it, like ground pepper but finer. Carl squinted. "Is that... coming off the spatula?"

"Watch." Elizabeth scraped her nail along the edge. More black particles cascaded down. She opened the drawer she'd been sorting. "It's not just this one." Her hands moved methodically now, pulling out each black utensil – the serving spoons, the measuring cups, the pasta fork they'd received as a housewarming gift.

"Oh." Carl picked up a measuring cup, turning it over in his hands. The rim was worn, its surface a maze of micro-scratches. "Well, maybe it's time for some new ones anyway. These have really served their purpose." He paused, grinning. "Get it? Served?"

Elizabeth was already reaching for her phone, her free hand absentmindedly gathering the scattered black particles into a small pile. "I saw something about this the other day...here." She scrolled, brow furrowing. "Black plastic recycling. They use old electronics, Carl. Electronics. In our kitchen utensils."

"So?"

"So electronics have flame retardants, heavy metals..." She looked up from her phone, meeting his eyes. "Carcinogens."

The silence that followed felt heavy enough to sink through the kitchen floor. Carl set down the measuring cup with the careful precision of someone handling something suddenly dangerous.

"How long have we had these?"

"I dunno, four years? Five?" Elizabeth was already moving, pulling a garbage bag from under the sink. She hesitated. "Maybe longer."

Carl watched as she began collecting the utensils, her movements precise and efficient. Each drawer, each shelf, each forgotten corner of their kitchen. He joined her, working from the opposite direction, their familiar rhythm of teamwork falling into place.

"You know what gets me?" he said, dropping a handful of measuring spoons into the bag. "All those fancy meals we made. All those times I worried about burning the sauce or overcooking the pasta..." He shook his head. "Never occurred to me to worry about the spoon I was stirring with."

Elizabeth paused, a whisk hovering over the bag. "We make decisions based on what we know at the time. That's all anyone can do." She rummaged in the back of a cabinet, emerging with an old wooden spoon, its handle smooth from years of use. "Found this at that antique store last summer, remember?"

Carl took the spoon, its worn surface somehow familiar against his palm. He moved to the stove, where a pan of eggs was starting to sizzle. As he reached for the eggs, something caught his eye – a hairline fracture in the non-stick coating of their favorite pan.

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