Making soup gets me into hot water

I am not a natural cook. I am not at home in the kitchen. I lack a subtle palate or any manner of cooking common sense. 

But when etiquette calls for it, I hear "Batter up!" and step up to the plate.

This particular case did not call for cake batter. Instead, I put my chocolate raspberry pies on the roster. Brad was going on a hunting trip with some buddies so I let him choose the heavy hitter for the main entry, wincing when he selected turkey soup. I wanted to call "Foul!" but it was too late. 

My attention deficit issues are not well-suited to hovering over rice as it simmers so, as usual, I stood swearing over the stove, twenty minutes in, scraping the pan armed with my forked-edge wooden spoon. It has a LOT of practice doing this.

I'd sauteed the celery and onion. Added the carrots. Tossed in the turkey and wild rice. Mixed in the milk. Squirt of lemon. Sprinkled in slivered almonds. Done.

Brad came over for a taste, reaching for the wooden spoon. I waited for him to tell me that it needed salt so that I could start screaming at him...it's a reliable release valve for my nervous energy. The rice wasn't the only thing simmering in that kitchen.

But he didn't say anything.

My heart pounded. I must have forgotten an ingredient or accidentally doubled or tripled one.

Finally, he spoke.

Carefully.

"When did the wooden spoon lose one of its prongs?" he asked, holding it up.

My heart sank.

I stared at him in horror. He stared back. Then we both looked at the pot of turkey soup.

I lunged at the soup and immediately began a desperate search.

Brad watched, flabbergasted. "Remember when Sydney lost her goggles in the Atlantic?" he said, "Finding a tiny piece of wood in a pot of turkey soup  is the equivalent of finding those goggles."

I ignored him.

"Remember when you dove into your parents' pool when we were teenagers and your contacts floated out of your eyeballs?" he said, trying again. He pulled the pot away from me.

I grabbed the handles and headed toward the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I'm throwing this across the road and then I'll make another batch," I snarled, stopping short as my
husband raced past me to block my exit. 

"They're duck hunters," he told me, "They are not going to care about a little piece of wood in a pot of turkey soup."

"I care," I said staunchly, trying to wiggle past him.

Brad wrestled the pot out of my hands and returned it to the counter.

Together, we carefully seined the soup, spoonful by spoonful...every celery slice providing false hope...chunks of turkey chuckling at our mistake. Brad tried the o' I found it (but really didn't) maneuver on me but I made him open his clenched fist to reveal a meat-based wood replica.

Forty-five minutes later...a miracle. With a wild whoop, I retrieved that wayward wooden refugee from the turkey soup.

I sent that soup off on Brad's hunting trip with a clear conscience. "Thank goodness," my husband said, "I would have hated to have you stewing about it all week-end."