My Teaspoon House

So I had that big pile of spoons that I found at yard sales, like a group of friends. Each one unique in its own way. Fat ones, skinny ones, long and tall, short and squat. Each one with a different grain, made from different kinds of wood and with a different style. Some with deep wide bowls meant for ladling out soups and some carved long and flat with dark spatula ends.

After some thought, I took them outside this morning and I rubbed mineral oil into them and it was like a conversation. As I held each one and worked the oil into the grains the colors deepened and the character became more pronounced. They spoke to me of history, of savory soups and tossed salads. Some of them seemed ancient and dark as if they had stirred 1000 pots of deep red sauce, and some of them were light in color as if they were young and innocent.

I wonder who carved them. Some of them are graceful and smooth and have never stirred a broth. They seem like works of art carved from rare wood and sanded with a delicate touch, and some of them are so dark with ancient oil and generations of bacon grease that they seem like old men. They call out recipes like dark clad priests call out prayers. They whisper of secret ingredients and long dinners over candlelight.

I have a teahouse in my garden all patched together from old windows and bits and pieces of found objects. The floor is made of old and rounded bricks and the rear wall displays huge old pieces of bamboo taken from a broken bed frame. I take great pleasure in building a small fire in the chiminea and simply sitting there and watching my crazy garden with my 3 dogs at my feet and a cup of tea in my hand. Until now I have referred to this sanctuary simply as, The Teahouse, although I suppose it would be more accurate to call it the Tea Shack, as it is rather random and is open to the south.

So I took all those spoons, the jumble of memories and shapes and I hung them all along the rafters, where they click and rattle softly as the wind blows through them, like a wind chime made of dinners, and stews, and the long memories of ancient cooks.

And finally the teahouse has found its name… Now when I go out to the garden with my cup of strong Ceylon tea and my miniature circus of dogs and cats, I’m going to The Teaspoon House.

Would love to have you join me.

One Response to “My Teaspoon House”
  1. Deanna Jay Chu Nim says:

    Lovely. Only you would think of this.

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