No, I didn’t steal my grandmother’s spoons, but I did steal the idea from her. Sitting in her kitchen, I always wondered where they came from, why they were grouped together and what made them special enough to be on the wall.
I decided to answer the questions, I never asked by collecting my own silverware. I’ll admit, most are stolen and some are gifts. I don’t condone stealing, and part of me always felt bad for taking what wasn’t mine. In hopes of forgiveness, I would trade something in it’s place, usually an “act now, ask for forgiveness later” in the form of an extra tip.
I never found a spoon when I was in Vancouver. You don’t eat raw oysters with spoons.
When in Rome, cafes are great places for people watching while waiting for your train.
I nicknamed him Mr. Spoonman. He was sick and passed the time by painting spoons and giving them to people he liked.
I was most excited to explore Vík í Mýrda but it rained the entire day. It was the kind of rain that hit you from the side and poured out of your boots.
Waking up in the capitol of Cambodia. The happy feeling of sun on your face and feet on solid ground after 24+ hrs of travel.
I knew I married the right man when he surprised me with a stolen spoon after I told him my secret.
He proposed to me in Paris, even though I was unable to order breakfast in French.
We drank coffee watching the sun rise over the temples of Angkor Wat.
Bangkok was the best and worst of times with the fanciest of hotels.
We drove to the beach on a rented motorbike. He navigated on a different side of the road and I held on and closed my eyes.