The attorney’s office
wasn’t what he’d expected – instead of a red-spined law library, there was a yellowing
stack of old National Geographic magazines on a bookshelf next to a few old photographs
in black and white. A parasol plant skulked in one corner, its leaves fidgeting
with every turn of the fan. Darren looked at the desk once again, nonplussed.
A spoon. A wooden
spoon, to be more precise. Not carved with any kind of ornamentation nor
wrapped in felt or velvet – just an ordinary spoon, lying there.
His attorney coughed. That’s
it, that’s the… bequest.
Darren reviewed his
memories for any indication of how this should have come to pass. His aunt had
been a bit of an enigma, never adopting the route of marriage and procreation
the way her siblings had. He had vague recollections of her house being full of
decorations and paintings, original artworks that carried the faint grooves of
the artist’s brushes in the heavy lines that she seemed to prefer. There were
kilims and lamps, and perhaps an old piano somewhere under a stack of books –
he couldn’t quite be sure if he’d made that up.
A spoon. It was written
in the will as THE spoon, as if it were a gold pocket watch or a small cottage
in the French countryside. There, next to the spoon: his name.
All he had with him was
a newspaper, so he wrapped up this curious effect and tucked it under his arm.
After all, a will isn’t just about getting things, it’s a moment of reflection
captured in a document. He puzzled at the link between his name and a wooden
spoon but couldn’t make a connection.
That evening, he sat in
his lounge with the doors to the balcony opened up. He could feel a gentle breeze
and smell the fragrances of the garden as he relaxed. He didn’t cook all that
often – it was just him, and it seemed extravagant to prepare food for one
person, but today he felt like the alchemy of the kitchen.
If he was completely
honest, it was a magnificent kitchen. A massive gas oven dominated, with endless
cupboards and surfaces all bracketing a spacious island where he preferred to
prepare the food.
He had many appliances
that he’d tried out, from air fryers to egg boilers, but still enjoyed the physical
energy of chopping, stirring, pouring.
Emptying his fridge, he
assembled various ingredients like spectators at a sports event, all lined up
and ready to get engrossed in the action.
It’s important to
honour family, Darren thought to himself as he took a sip from a large glass,
before unwrapping the wooden spoon from its newspaper nest of headlines and
advertisements.
The spoon was the length
of his forearm and blackened on the curve of the bowl, slightly worn down on the
left-hand side from incessant stirring.
As he held it,
something he couldn’t quite articulate happened. It was as if a warm blast of
energy blew up his fingers and into his arms. A burst of images filled his mind
– casserole dishes, rich puddings, platters groaning with the weight of snacks
and party food. He could smell spices and herbs, hear the sounds of knifes and
forks against porcelain and the faint giggle of laughter.
He remembered how he
and his brothers would flinch instinctively when they saw that same wooden
spoon, a symbol of rebuke – had it been in their mother’s hands – but in his
aunt’s kitchen it was as powerful as Excalibur, able to turn peasants into
royalty, an instrument of myth and legend.
He knew, then, that his
aunt hadn’t just left him a spoon, she’d dubbed him heir and recipient of her immense
legacy, a legacy passed down over centuries, building an impregnable strength
with each successive owner. In this kitchen, he had become regal with that
simple gesture, as gentle as the tap of a sword on a shoulder commissioning a
knight into service.
Darren held the spoon
up to the lights, and murmured a commitment that he swore to honour, always; to
be a fine Servant of the Spoon.
Back in the
office, the old attorney smiled as he turned the pages of the will, remembering
how Darren’s aunt had insisted on the inclusion of that spoon, before signing
over her immense wealth to The Long Home for Retired Dachshunds. She was no
fool – she understood the ways of people. Always had.
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