My Bowl

Every morning, after I wake up, put on my clothes, and stumble downstairs, I go into the kitchen and I take a cereal bowl down from the cupboard. It is always the same bowl; it’s my bowl.

My bowl is nothing special in the woodworking world. It could have been, but it just so happens that my bowl is a little rough around the edges. There are some tool-marks left on the inside curves, and a small chunk missing out of the foot.

Why this bowl, of the many bowls in wood, ceramic, glass and plastic that I own? Why have I made such a sentimental connection with this one?

Some of it, of course, is the size, the shape. Most of the other wooden bowls I own are more fit for serving salads for a party, rather than serving cereal for one. But I have plenty of plastic and ceramic bowls that would happily hold my breakfast without too much wasted volume.

Some of it is the warmth and softness of the material. I love the bright, clean beauty of ceramics, but they are always a little too cold and harsh first thing in the morning. My wooden bowl is always the same temperature as my hand, even after I’ve poured it full of frosty milk. Wooden bowls, the good ones, take nothing from you, not even minor comforts.

At least, they take nothing from you as you fill them with cereal, bring them to the table, and take your nourishment. They do, of course, require a little more care and special treatment afterwards than a glass or ceramic bowl would.

But this, finally, is the real reason I think that my bowl is my bowl. My bowl is the one that I have washed by hand hundreds of times. My bowl is the one that I take down from the cupboard on spare afternoons to refresh it with a new coat of oil or wax. My bowl is the one I have given my time, my attention, and my care to, more than any other bowl in my kitchen. It’s a small time, a small care I have given, but a consistent one. There’s a certain kind of balance, stability and comfort in knowing that, drop by drop, every day I use my bowl, every time I oil it again, it gets a little better. Better, not just because it’s a little more beautiful or patinated, but because it’s a little more mine.