"The Silver Spoon"

BY BRANDY CRISWELL

Gertrude Leczyc was extraordinary. She smelled of lavender when her mood was high and of mint when her mood was low. She had the kind of unruly hair that seemed to be flowing in water even when it was dry, and green eyes with flecks of gold when the light shown just right. From a young age, she was most comfortable in the kitchen. Her mother had disappeared just after she was born, leaving a silver spoon with lavender flowers on the handle in her cradle.
It seemed Gertrude could cook before she could speak a full sentence. She lived with her aging grandmother who would have to spend the day begging for scraps; at times, all she could bring home was an onion and some beans. Gertrude would grab her spoon and turn it into a feast. The sounds of an onion peeling, of a knife chopping beans on the butcher block, of the spoon clanking on the side of the large cast iron pot were music to her grandmother's ears. And then the smell of chicken and dumplings would permeate the kitchen as Gertrude hummed and danced around. Each meal, no matter how meager, would fill their bellies and give them strength.
As Gertrude danced around the kitchen with worn and chipped green cabinets, her grandmother swore she was shining purple, like when the sun was shining just right through the faded blue curtains of their home. As she danced, the grandmother smelled the lavender in the air and realized Gertrude was truly magic.
After her grandmother passed away—simply from old age—Gertrude spent more time in town, and as she grew, she recognized her healing abilities. The people in town were often thin and sick. The children were sad and desperate for nourishment. She felt the responsibility looming over her, so she procured the best ingredients she could find and scoured the kitchen and woods around their home for herbs and spices. As she felt the hard wood planks beneath her feet, she began to tap a beat, and with that beat she began to hum, and then her skin shone purple. She used her spoon to measure every ingredient and to stir all night, and when she felt it was ready, she took her concoction to the market.
She walked around offering a spoonful to everyone she met. An older woman said the concoction smelled of cinnamon and cardamom, reminding her of a delicious tea her mother made when she was little. A young man said it smelled of fresh cut grass and citrus, his favorite scents as a boy. As each person took a sip from the silver spoon, they stood a little taller, felt a little better, and every single one went away satisfied. Healers and witches weren’t uncommon, but there hadn’t been a witch this powerful in years, and the town needed her healing magic. As she spent more time among them, the town grew and prospered; Gertrude was known for her kindness, and her magic for its purity.
Gertrude fell in love with an evil man who tried to use Gertrude’s magic for his own gain, and they had a daughter, Vivian. Vivian had tight curls and dark eyes, and she didn’t inherit Gertrude’s kind heart or pure magic. As the child grew, her jealousy of her mother’s powers took control of her. While her mother was serving others, Vivian would watch from the corners, wishing they could just go home and away from the rancid-smelling streets. Not even her mother’s lavender scent calmed Vivian the way it seemed to for others.
When Vivian was handed the spoon with lavender flowers on the handle, she expected her life would be as full as her mother’s. But Vivian, covetous of the magic, ran straight into the kitchen to make her very first concoction. It was a mess; she forced the ingredients and held the spoon in anger when it didn’t turn out the way she had expected. She stomped around the room and grunted as nothing turned out the way she expected it too. She added a spoonful to her mother’s morning coffee and waited. Gertrude smiled at her young girl and told her she needed to take her time and enjoy the process. Vivian tried again and again, but the magic eluded her.
Gertrude tried to teach her daughter that it was kindness and giving that allowed the magic to grow, but Vivian wouldn’t listen, and Gertrude’s heart broke to see her daughter's malevolence.
Gertrude passed unexpectedly one day, leaving Vivian to fend for herself. Vivian married out of necessity and had a daughter, Louise. Louise had loose flowing curls and light eyes, almost like Gertrude’s, but without the flecks of gold. Vivian hoped her daughter would inherit the magic, but when Louise was given the spoon with the lavender flowers on the handle, she simply became a good cook. She enjoyed cooking and took her time. She worked hard to make delicious foods for her family, and she won a blue ribbon for their family recipe of chicken and dumplings. But there was no magic in it.
Louise fell in love—the kind of love we all hope for—and had a baby girl, Mavis. The baby was sweet, and her kindness was apparent early on, and she glowed a faint purple. Louise loved to run her fingers through her daughter’s unruly hair, though she could never quite tame it. Vivian, however, soon became jealous and decided if she couldn’t have the magic, no one could. And so, worried her granddaughter was like her mother, she wouldn’t allow Mavis to touch the spoon.
Mavis didn’t feel whole. There was a part of her that was missing. She would mope around, and all the kids teased her, saying that she smelled like toothpaste and that their noses burned when she was around.
After she consumed too many glasses of red wine, Vivian would tell stories of Gertrude. She would look deeply into the burgundy liquid as if it were a crystal ball. She would swirl the wine around in the glass, and then she would begin her lament: “They all loved my mother. People would come from all over just to try her food and be healed. All I ever wanted was for her to teach me her magic, but she just talked about kindness. I would watch my mother dance around the kitchen, bare feet making beats on the wooden floor, humming, smelling of lavender, and then she would tell me, again, ‘magic isn’t taught, it’s given.’”
Louise listened to the stories, and somehow she just knew her daughter was powerful, and that the spoon was the key.
Vivian’s health began to fade. She was weak, depleted of energy. Death was close, and the different colored vials of medicines and concoctions from the doctors weren’t working. The candle by her bed was just a puddle of wax, mimicking the end of a life.
Louise woke early before her mother and went to the kitchen. She took 15-year-old Mavis with her. The sun was streaming in through the faded blue curtains, patched in different places over the years. The light caught Mavis’ eye, and Louise swore she saw flecks of gold in her eyes. As the silver spoon with lavender flowers on the handle passed into Mavis’ hands, her skin shone purple, and Louise realized the stories of Gertrude were all true. Mavis smiled, and her mother smelled a hint of lavender in the air. As they looked around the century-old kitchen, her mother asked her what they should make her grandmother for breakfast. Mavis grabbed an onion and some beans, and then Mavis’ bare feet started tapping on the new, smooth, cold tile floor. Mavis flowed through the kitchen, humming and making a beat. She used the spoon with lavender flowers on the handle to measure and stir. It felt right in Mavis’ hand, and Mavis felt complete.
Vivian’s eyes opened as she smelled the chicken and dumplings, just like mother’s, and she managed a weak smile. In that moment, she realized her mother was right: magic isn’t taught, it’s given to those who will give to others.