Ode to the stirring stick

Long and slender, you offer a service to many who would otherwise use their index fingers-or a butter knife. Some of you are anonymous yet others have a history and memories attached to your being that lead us into a nostalgic daze at the kitchen counter. Music to our ears while mixing the goodness within. Cubes rustling, swirling, bouncing against the cup rim.

Like our own biographies, your origin is unique and personal. I stashed you into my shirt pocket many late nights fresh from a Whiskey Sour at the bar downtown. You ended up in my day pack on the flight to Honolulu when they teased us with complimentary Mai Tais before landing. And when I had nothing else, I salvaged you from a brush pile to bond with my first White Russian of the night at one of a million bonfires.

The stick that broke the stirring mold however is a story of friendship, late nights, Yellowstone sunsets, and wood stoves. This stick has been around the west, barely dipping below 4,000 feet except for a brief stint in central Wisconsin.

We christened it in our small employee cabin at Roosevelt Lodge in Yellowstone National Park. As Josh and I laid our sleeping bags out on our single mattress, hung cowboy hats on nails in the cross beam and stacked our over-packed clothes on an old, paint-chipped shelf in the corner, the cabin started to become ours. At least for the summer.

On a trip out the door one of us, I forget who, noticed the old radio antennae hanging between a couple of screws in the window frame. As fate would have it, we were in the act of putting together our own concoction of a scotch blend with some lemon cola. A drink we came to love only because between our location and the mercantile available, it's what we were allowed on the cheap. As one of us grabbed it from the wall, hanging so perfectly between those golden screws,our eyes met and our stirring stick was realized.

It provided for us that entire summer, mixing clear and murky alike. It never got washed yet it always mixed the task at hand to a delightful perfection. As we departed our summer jobs we decided that it had to come with us. When we shook hands we memorized the layout of the screws between which it hung after every drink so that we could get it right at its next home. Our agreement was that our stirring stick would travel, since we lived in different states, taking turns in possession. And it has.

That was years ago. Josh and I have exchanged it numerous times since, most recently I handed it back to him in West Yellowstone at the beginning of this summer. It still hasn't been washed, as our agreement called for. And yet it still lives up to its reputation. Indeed, it is an old radio antennae, and yes it still retracts to about a fifth of its extended size despite all the flavor it has picked up along the way.

Some folks prefer the traditional blue and red plastic sticks, with labels and shapes reflecting brands and destinations. My parents have a glass full of them. Some prefer random sticks from the woods while others prefer utensils from the drawer. I've used them all. And while I have no preference between most, I have more memories with our Yellowstone stirring stick of old. I don't know its true origin and I don't need to. For Josh and I, we know where it came from.

And more importantly we know where it's going.