There are better ones, yes. There are ones that swoop the bottom of the curve to get the last bits, ensuring a picture perfect dome. There are ones that warm the pint, melting their way through the cream so that the arm rests. There are ones that heavier, made of metal. There are ones that are flat and allow for much, much more of the treat. There are ones, I have seen, that create neat little stacks, though I am not sure if stacks will ever rival the rotundity of the classic scoop, settled in its cloud of rough craggy cream.
This one, this one piece orange wonder, was my mother's ice cream scoop. In its life it has served most of the people I've loved. It's portioned out bowls of bliss for family, friends, boyfriends, and husbands. It's done so in many homes, through many states, by many hands. This scoop has helped heal heartaches, fulfill birthday wishes, reward triumphs, soothes defeats, and sometimes, simply helped to busy a worried mind.
This scoop requires, at times, the help of another force to clean its curve, to remove its scoop, to complete the cone. It isn't always the best with respect to form and function. It's set in its ways, this one. Regardless, this orange scoop is by far the most beautiful I have ever seen. Sometimes, when I pass through the kitchen late at night, head filled with unquietable wonders, I see it perched against its white porcelain home, tacked high on the wall, and I find comfort in its story; some days I find comfort in just knowing it's there, waiting.
Tonight, in celebration of paying attention, I will pull down my favorite bowl, open the freezer and shiver from the frost, stand on my tip toes and take down that old ice cream scoop and wrestle with my good intentions over one scoop or two. I will make a bowl for Andrew and wrestle with him over two scoops or three, and I will wash the scoop by hand, as I always do, and put it back where it belongs - in my mother's daughter's home, waiting to be used.