Made by Hand (20 page)

Eventually, I had what looked very much like a spoon, except for the hollowed-out part. From my research, I knew there were a number of ways to form the hollow. I could use a hook knife or a gouge; or I could chip away at the bowl with a knife until I had a rough concave shape, then use a blunt stick wrapped in sandpaper to smooth it out.

I went to the local craft store to buy a wood-carving set. The only thing they carried was a five-dollar kit containing five wood-handled carving tools. I bought it and took it home. The U-shaped gouge that came with it worked surprisingly well, considering how cheap it was. Using it to carve the hollow of the spoon was a little like scooping out hard-frozen ice cream from a container. I took care not to make the concave part so deep that it would break through to the other side. The gouge left a lot of little channels in the surface, which I smoothed out with sandpaper.

A light overall sanding was all that was needed to complete the project. I didn’t try to give the spoon a mirror finish. I liked the rough-hewn look of the final product, with its thick handle and the easily discernible whittling planes that composed a mosaic of small facets across its surface. I hefted it in my hand and pretended to stir a hearty stew. The spoon felt solid and capable of handling the most viscous of pancake batters. I was proud of my creation. This spoon, which had been hiding inside that broken branch for the last couple of months, was now a tool I’d use daily for many years (or so I hoped).

When I showed my spoon to Carla, she was genuinely impressed. I gave it a light coat of canola oil to make the grain stand out, wiped it down, and added it to the widemouthed jar on the kitchen counter with the soon-to-be-replaced cooking implements.

A couple of days later I went to work on a second spoon. This time, I wanted to make something a little more shapely and streamlined. I started with a thinner section of wood and used a wood rasp to quickly shave the outline. I was on a long conference call while I worked on it, so I kept the phone on mute most of the time while I noisily scraped and carved. I was able to pay attention to the conversation while I worked; in fact, I paid more attention to the conversation than I would have if I hadn’t been doing anything with my hands. The calming and focusing effect of spoon whittling is nothing short of miraculous.

By the time the call was over, I was ready to hollow out the scoop end of the spoon. I got the gouger and started cutting with it, but it was a lot duller than before. I wasn’t surprised. What should I expect from a $1 tool? At this point I could have used my Dremel tool (a motorized drill-like device to which you can attach different kinds of cutting, grinding, sharpening, drilling, and polishing bits) to hollow out the scoop part, but if I resorted to power tools, I might lose the relaxation response I got from whittling. It would speed things up too much for my liking. However, using the Dremel to sharpen the
gouge
seemed far enough removed from the process of carving that I figured it wouldn’t adulterate the purity of the experience.

The Dremel tool spins so fast that it screams when you use it. The grinding bit I used easily cut into the metal of the gouge. But when I tried the gouge on the spoon, it was as bad as before. Either I wasn’t getting the right angle for sharpening or the gouge was just such a piece of junk that the metal was no good. I went online and found a large number of pages and videos about sharpening gouges. It turns out that sharpening is just the first step in maintaining a gouge. You also have to hone and polish it. From what I picked up, honing and polishing are really just refined sharpening.

I put my spoon away until I could get a proper gouge and the tools needed to keep it sharp. I ordered a No. 10 Bent 8mm gouge for $24.50 from
Woodcraft.com
, along with a sharpening kit for $13.99. The scoop-shaped blade of the gouge was as shiny as a mirror. I had no idea how sharp it was until I put the piece of wood I was whittling in my lap and started using the gouge. It slipped off the wood, jabbed a hole through my pants, and left a U-shaped cut in my thigh.

I started whittling over a table after that.

After making several spoons for use in the kitchen, I made one as a present for Sarina’s art teacher. Because it was a gift, I wanted to make it larger than usual, with a deeper scoop. I split off another piece of my log (I still had most of it!) and started whittling. Some days I’d spend ten or fifteen minutes on it; other days I hacked away for an hour or more. The spoon emerged from the wood without much in the way of conscious direction on my part. What would it end up looking like? I had no idea. I enjoy the surprise aspect.

As I dug away at the scoop of the spoon, I ran into a problem. The center of the branch was hollow. A tiny tunnel ran through the entire branch. This caused an ugly hole to appear in three parts of the spoon—at the front and back of the hollow part and near the end of the handle. I’d been working on the spoon for over a week, and now this. Was I going to have to chuck the whole thing and start over? Before I did that, I decided to try to patch it up. I collected the sawdust that had accumulated on the table from sanding the spoon and mixed it with a little wood glue, forming a putty. I pushed as much of the putty as I could into the holes and let it dry. The putty was noticeably darker after drying, but I convinced myself that it gave the spoon a certain ramshackle-solid charm. I gave the spoon a final sanding and applied a polish made from beeswax and olive oil.

I showed the spoon to Carla. She loved it. “I think you should make a spoon for everyone we need to give a gift to,” she said. I liked that idea, too. The trouble was, it took at least five hours to make a spoon, so I couldn’t make enough unless I spent every hour of every weekend making them. The other option would be to use power tools to rough out the shape of the spoons, and then use hand tools to finish them. But I didn’t want to do that. I felt that if I went down that path, I’d miss out on the very reason I had started making spoons in the first place. I would just have to be OK with making as many spoons as I made. I didn’t want this hobby to become a stressful job instead of a source of joy and relief.

Making something as humble as a wooden spoon doesn’t count as much of an artistic achievement. It’s nothing compared to the work of, say, the master carvers of the misnamed “Black Forest” school, a group of Victorian-era Swiss artists who carved incredibly detailed life-sized bears and other animals, music boxes, furniture, and astounding three-dimensional reproductions of famous paintings, such as Leonardo da Vinci’s
Last Supper
. Of course, I’m envious of artists and craftsmen who are far more skilled and dedicated than I am at making things of beauty. They put my meager efforts to shame. But I try to accept my limitations and realize that by whittling my own spoons, I’ve gained the following:

 

1.
New appreciation for masterful woodwork and sculpture.
Now that I know how much effort and skill go into carving, I’m more interested in studying the work of artists who use wood in their art. I notice things about their work that I wouldn’t have before I started whittling. Making your own stuff is one of the best ways to enhance your powers of observation and subsequently your appreciation of what’s around you. And learning to appreciate the work of masters has also helped me to appreciate my own, much more modest efforts and inspired me to experiment with new techniques and styles.

 

 

2.
Control of my environment.
I’m happy to do the best I can, even if that is just an asymmetrical wooden spoon. Whatever flaws and features the spoon possesses are a result of my efforts. I can learn from my mistakes and try to do better next time. This kind of control is impossible if you buy everything you need. It’s nice to know that there are plenty of opportunities to improve as I continue to whittle.

 

 

3.
A connection with other people.
Sarina’s art teacher’s response to getting the spoon was better than I’d hoped. She was delighted with it and actually liked the darker putty patches just as I did. I enjoy showing my spoons to visitors, and they are interested—or at least are polite enough to pretend to be—in them. The spoons are conversation pieces, and they trigger interesting memories in the people who see them. Some have recalled their grandfathers’ woodcraft projects or their childhood whittling activities.

 

Now that I’ve gained some experience making spoons, chicken coops, and cigar-box guitars, basic woodworking is no longer as mysterious as it once was. I know much more about the peculiarities of wood—how it splits, warps, fights back, and acquiesces to my attempts to make something new out of it. I know more about what to look for when picking out lumber. From the few projects I’ve completed, my attitude about making things of all kinds—planning, designing, and building them—has improved. I feel like I’ve tuned in to a better way of living.

7

FOMENTING FERMENTATION

In 1995 Carla’s mother, Jackie, told me about the batches of “mushroom tea” she had been making from a self-reproducing blob of fungus. One of her clients (Jackie owned a tax-preparing business) had given her the mushroom, telling her that its origins went back hundreds of years to Russia. Jackie said the brew was called
kombucha
; it was supposed to restore health to the drinker. In fact, she said, it was a cure-all.

The next time Carla and I visited Jackie, she led us to her dining room. A one-gallon glass bowl sat on the table, covered with a square of thin white cloth. She lifted the cloth to reveal a milky-tan gelatinous disk the size of a dinner plate floating on the surface of light amber tea. “That’s the mushroom,” she said. It looked like an alien lifeform, a slimy blob with what appeared to be veins running through it.

Jackie said it was time to harvest this particular batch of tea, as it had been fermenting for a week. She washed her hands and transferred the blob, dripping with tea and sporting a few brown mucousy tendrils, to a plate. The smell of vinegar wafted up from the bowl. She ladled the tea into a glass jar and asked if we wanted to try it. Feeling adventurous, Carla and I assented. Jackie ladled some into glasses and handed them to us. I took a sip, expecting it to have a funky, moldy flavor, but it was crisp and fizzy, like sparkling apple cider mixed with a little vinegar. I asked for more.

“I can give you a mushroom if you want to make it yourself,” Jackie said. I told her I’d like that. She picked up the mushroom that was on the plate and pointed out that there were really two mushrooms stuck together. “It creates a new mushroom with each batch of tea you make,” she said. She peeled them apart and put my mushroom in a Ziploc plastic bag with an ounce or two of the tea to keep it moist. She also gave me the simple recipe: “Steep six to eight black tea bags in a gallon of water. Remove the tea bags. Add one cup of sugar. Pour the sugared tea into a glass container. Place the
kombucha
mushroom on top of the tea. Cover with cloth and let it ferment for a week. Enjoy!”

I took my adopted mushroom home and followed the recipe; it worked without a hitch. I was surprised by how automatic the process was. I just set up the initial conditions and let nature take over. I went online to find out more about
kombucha,
but there was precious little information about it at the time.

I didn’t think much about the purported health benefits of
kombucha
—I drank it for the taste. And after a few months, Carla and I moved, and I never got around to starting the process up again. By that time, my mother-in-law had lost interest in
kombucha,
too.

I pretty much forgot about the fermented treat until a few years ago, when commercial versions of
kombucha
started showing up in places like Whole Foods. The Web was now awash with information about it. I learned that the blob isn’t really a mushroom at all but, rather, a “symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast,” affectionately known as a SCOBY.

The history of
kombucha
is unclear. One book says it originated in Southeast Asia and that it was consumed as far back as 221 B.C., during the Tsin dynasty. (Then again, that book was written by the same fellow who wrote
Urine: The Holy Water
.)

If the online histories of
kombucha
are to be believed, SCOBYs made their way from China to Russia and Europe, and then to the rest of the world. In his 1968 book,
Cancer Ward,
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn described a brew called
chaga,
made from a “birch-tree cancer . . . a sort of ugly growth on old birch trees . . . It is dome-shaped, black on the outside and dark brown inside.” According to Solzhenitsyn, the people who drank
chaga
(because they were too poor to afford real tea) were free of cancer. The birch-tree “cancer” might have been a SCOBY, which has been found on plants that have sweet-tasting sap.

It’s difficult to separate fact from fiction when it comes to
kombucha
. I’ve read that it prolongs life, prevents cancer, stops insomnia, reverses baldness, turns gray hair dark, is an excellent aphrodisiac, cures arthritis, and effectively treats dozens of other maladies. There are no studies to back up such extravagant claims, however.

Nevertheless, some of the research points to possible health benefits. An article published in 2009 in
Chinese Medicine
reports that
kombucha
was demonstrated to repair cellular damage in rats exposed to the industrial toxin trichloroethylene (TCE). Most of the health claims for
kombucha
come from the fact that it contains beneficial bacteria, also known as probiotics, such as
Lactobacillus
and
Saccharomyces boulardii.

In one study in Sweden in 2005, researchers gave ninety-four workers in one company a daily dose of
Lactobacillus reuteri
for eighty days. They gave eighty-seven other workers a placebo. The results were impressive: The placebo takers called in sick more than twice as often as the bacteria takers, and the placebo takers’ sick leaves lasted more than twice as long. Among the fifty-three shift workers (as opposed to day workers), “33% in the placebo group reported sick during the study period as compared with none in the
L. reuteri
group.” Other tests have revealed that probiotic drinks could fight some kinds of cancers.