Feed Them Out of a Long-Handled Spoon
Growing up, my grandmother had a saying for everything. Her words were like little lanterns, lighting the way through life's twists and turns. One phrase she repeated often has stayed with me all these years:
"Feed them out of a long-handled spoon."
As a child, I didn’t fully understand what she meant. I later understood that she would say it whenever someone proved themselves untrustworthy or harmful, yet circumstances meant you couldn’t completely cut them off. Her wisdom was clear: you can still offer kindness, still extend grace—but with wisdom, with distance, with self-protection.
There’s an old saying that Chaucer documented centuries ago: "He needs a long spoon who sups with the Devil." Hunty-Chile!
When you must engage with those who might harm you, arm yourself with distance, using this wisdom may save your life! My grandmother’s long-handled spoon was her version of Chaucer’s warning, refined through a lifetime of navigating complicated relationships with grace.
Now, as an adult, I see how prophetic she was. There are people you may have to stay connected to for family, work, or community reasons—people who’ve shown you that closeness invites chaos, manipulation, or heartache. The coworker who undermines you while smiling to your face. The family member whose love comes with conditions and criticism. The friend who only calls when they need something, while disappearing when you actually do. That part!
And so, you feed them out of a long-handled spoon.
Trust me, it’s not cruelty disguised as wisdom. It’s not passive aggression dressed up in proverbs. It’s the revolutionary act of seeing people clearly—acknowledging both their humanity and their capacity for harm—without sacrificing your peace on the altar of their dysfunction.
The long-handled spoon is about calibrated connection. You can offer politeness without intimacy. Civility without vulnerability. Kindness without foolishness. You feed them—you don't starve them of basic human decency—but you do it from a safe distance.
I've learned to use that long-handled spoon in my own life, and it's been liberation disguised as limitation. It's how I protect my energy while honoring my values. It's how I love people without enabling their worst impulses. It's how I stay soft in a world that often rewards hardness.
The spoon gets longer with some people over time. Trust, once broken, requires evidence to rebuild—not just apologies or promises. Some people earn their way back to the regular silverware drawer through consistent change. Others remain permanently at long-spoon distance, and that's okay too.
My grandmother's words echo through the years, reminding me that love and wisdom aren't enemies—they're dance partners. Real love sometimes requires boundaries. True compassion sometimes demands distance. The deepest kindness we can offer someone is refusing to enable their destructive patterns.
Sometimes, keeping the spoon long is the most loving thing you can do—for them, for yourself, and for everyone else trying to have dinner at the same table.
Grandma Alice
The Devil, as Chaucer knew, doesn't always come with horns and fire. Sometimes he comes with familiar eyes and good intentions gone wrong. Sometimes he looks like someone you used to trust completely.
Keep your spoon long. Feed them if you must. But never forget who you’re dining with.
Love Always,
Queenie 💛
