As one journey ends, another begins.
The story of The Dinner Table isn’t a new one. It’s meaning is as old as the meals that have been savoured around it are. This dream of creating a space to provide people with moments of edible elation in amongst the hubbub of connecting with other humans, is something that has been swirling and swooping around in my head for a few years now.
However, as the caramel edged sun rises on the long desired idea, it slowly makes its descent behind the bluest of briny seas for my trusty old friend.
My playdough blue, silicone pal has been with me through times of gleeful pleasure as I have baked vanilla laced sponge cakes for my children’s birthdays. With the lightest of touches, for fear of deflating the pillowy clouds of meringue, it has folded mahogany kissed hazelnuts through the air filled egg whites to create pavlovas and roulades ready to be devoured on candle lit evenings by red wine infused friends. As this domesticated utensil drawer soldier has battled on through the days of happiness and light, it has also stood firmly by my mason bowl when the black clouds have cast themselves upon my skies. Though the rim of its handle grew war wound after war wound it ploughed on. The therapeutic figure of eights tucked flour into batter, healing my anxious mind with every stroke.
Then came the bake sale.
As the creation of a tiny idea came to life, the scars grew upon the Teletubby teal warrior whilst wading through Bain–Marie’s and bubbling caramel, forgotten, in a haze of cocoa dusted kitchen counter tops.
Now, as it reaches the end of its bold and valiant life, the time has come for my hero in blue to rest it’s weary, half melted head, down in the draw of eternal and recyclable slumber.
The time is nigh for a new mate to become my right hand sous as we head towards the unknown horizon of what The Dinner Table may bring. Though this cream and red folding marine may stand the test of time, I shall not forget the little bubble gum blue spatula of bakes gone by.