As I was cleaning my kitchen in the way that I do only before Passover, I found, in the far recesses of the silverware drawer--how can I put this nicely?--stolen property. Three tiny spoons emblazoned with the El Al logo, to be precise.

I would dare anyone reading this column to tell me that they don't have a few things in their homes that might fall under the broad definition of misappropriation, perhaps a book whose owner you can no longer remember or an umbrella you borrowed when leaving a friend's house on a particularly rainy night. This is sort of like that.

I've been privileged to travel to Israel once each year for the past 10 years. Having done so, I've developed a series of strategies for maximizing comfort while minimizing luggage weight. I've learned to carry Ziploc bags to hold a few pastries to eat on the bus as I herd students out of the dining room; I know that facial tissue in those convenient pocket packages can be used for much more than runny noses.

It used to be that I would carry a pocket knife when I traveled. Loving tools of all sorts, I once kept an all-purpose tool about twice the thickness of a credit card in my wallet--until I forgot it was there and it was confiscated by the fine people of Northwest Airlines. I realize that I don't carry cutlery or a combination screwdriver/bottle opener/compass with me on a daily basis, but somehow the thought of being in a foreign country without at least some of these tools makes me a little nervous. Who knows when I'll have to open up a bottle of wine for a beachfront havdalah service or divvy up birthday cake on a moving bus?

This is where the El Al cutlery comes in.

Of course, the diminutive fork, knife and spoon given out twice in flight come in their own handy carrying case, an oblong zip-top bag. Not only am I prepared if I encounter a messy falafel, but I also have a repository for the Israeli currency I carry, much of which comes in coin form.

It's always my aim to return these items on my flight home, and I often do. Sometimes I can't get them back through security, and sometimes they are buried so deep in my backpack that they are effectively lost until the next time I travel. It's truly a wonder that there are only THREE such spoons in my drawer.

Of course, these spoons aren't my only tangible reminder of Israel. I purchased the tallit I use every week during services in Jerusalem, I have photographs and paintings made in Tzefat and along the Kinneret. Much of my jewelry was handmade by friends or friends of friends who have made Israel their home.

But somehow, these tiny spoons hold a special place among my treasures. In some way, I think it's because of their simplicity. They're not meant for use on special occasions. They are completely pedestrian, made not of silver or the finest needlework, but of the cheapest metal.

They remind me that Israel is a country much like many other countries, filled with people who go to work or school, take care of children or elderly parents, and complain about the weather and the taxes, just like you and me. They remind me that my connection to Israel is living and breathing, not something sitting on a high shelf, out of reach, meant to be looked at, but never touched. They remind me that--just as we use spoons to feed ourselves--we are nourished by our relationship to Israel and must nourish it.

This year, as we celebrate Israel's 60th birthday, I am mindful of the many ways in which we can nourish our relationship to Israel: Go and visit. Buy Na'ot shoes or Jaffa oranges. Listen to music performed by Idan Raichel or Yael Naim. Read something by Yehuda Amichai or A.B. Yehoshua. Don't let this birthday go by without doing something to mark the occasion.