The Luniferous Gazette #62: Essential Cutlery of My Life

These Are a Few of My Favorite Spoons

I waxed poetic about the impact of a single blue glass plate on my life a few issues back, so I thought I would continue with the tableware theme and talk about the essential cutlery of my life. Specifically, spoons.

If you have better things to do with your time than waste precious Earth seconds on my core flatware memories, that’s fair.

Everyone else? I utilized my free will to take a fancy photo op of said spoons. Behold the Princess Spoon!

From my earliest childhood memory, I always reserved one favorite teaspoon just for my breakfast Cheerios. It was curiously light, more the silver suggestion of a spoon than the actual thing. The nearly paper-thin metal was emblazoned with delicate floral vines and a single cursive “P,” probably for our family’s last name. 

All the other spoons in the drawer were boring in comparison to this fairy flatware! I’m pretty certain that my parents received the spoon as part of an advertisement for a silverware set in the 80’s or 90’s. The back is stamped “Stainless Steel Japan SAMPLE.”

When I went to college, of course I packed my favorite spoon. Dorm Cheerios are so much more scrumptious with a Princess Spoon, after all. Maybe it wasn’t a fairy wand that could grant me wishes or straight A grades, but each crunch somehow tasted more glamorous with my petite fancy “P” spoon!

I must make a dark confession, though. My Princess Spoon was part of a pair—

But one day, I accidentally dropped the ill-fated twin down the disposal and nicked the slender metal in multiple places!

 

I could never bring myself to get rid of the Marred Princess Spoon as it was still perfectly functional, but I still feel a smidge of guilt for my errant toss every time I pull it out of the silverware drawer.

Curiously, the twin spoons are stamped from different countries of origin, with the Marred Princess labeled “SAMPLE” and “Customcraft® Stainless Steel Korea.”

When I was thirty-three, I left my American birth religion (the one with the Golden Plates) and became enamored by the temptations of French press coffee. My Princess Spoon was suddenly elevated from cereal scooping to prime stirrer of my morning coffee. Oh, what a scandalous shift to caffeinated cutlery duties!

A fresh dawn broke over my breakfast scene as a new favorite spoon was elevated from my Costco Waterford wedding silverware set. Behold the perfect heft and artful scalloped ridges of the Mermaid Spoon— 

There’s only one spoon of its kind in my collection, so I dare not make any clumsy mistakes with the greedy grinder maw in the sink! I reserve the Mermaid Spoon for my oatmeal as I swear it tastes less bland because of the scalloped edges. Somehow, these ridges enhance the flavor (*just like the snap of a Ruffles potato chip is ever so much more satisfying between the teeth than a flat chip!).

Now, let’s move on to the Pretty Useless Spoons category:

 

The Garden Spoon serves as the center piece of a random alcove in my kitchen. A tiny nail was already embedded in the wall when we moved in, but it took me several years to figure out what truly belonged there. 

And is this spoon not a floral masterpiece worthy of such placement? I ask nothing of it but to gleam in its appointed corner. I smile at its silver shine frequently and dust it (um, occasionally). 

I thrifted this Bookish Angels Spoon in honor of my grammie Nancy Anne, an original Tag Sale Queen and lover of all things angel. The back is stamped “Reutter Porzellan Germany.” There’s just something fun about finding tiny winged porzellan persons flitting on your spoon!

 

I plucked this Dainty Daffydowndilly Spoon from a cup of tacky tourist spoons for under two bucks. 

Adorned with a single stately daffodil bloom, I believe it is a sterling silver Holland Souvenir Spoon. Maybe someday I’ll thrift an entire bouquet! For now, I am quite content with this solitaire blossom.

For the penultimate spotlight, may I present the Posh Sirens Pair—

These mother of pearl utensils are extra special to me because my sister B bought fine caviar sets from Whole Foods in honor of my visit one year. I’d never tried such a delicacy before and was enthralled that each set came with an individual fancy spoon for serving out the caviar will all due pomp.

B spoiled me with a home-cooked steak dinner with fresh black garlic from the local garlic festival, and garnished it with sauteed parsnips and fresh caviar. Then she gifted me these lustrous spoons as souvenirs of the poshest feast of my life!

I won’t grant you a glimpse of the elegant antique filigree of the last spoon I treasure most dearly, but I will leave you with a poem about the Heirloom Spoon (N.F. Silver Co 1877)—

 Tsp! A Spoonful
of Ash with Star

After Mama died suddenly,
my father placed her ashes
in a red plastic pot
from Marshall’s.

Scandalized, my sisters and I
painted three clay pots so
we could divide her
cherished dust
among us.

But when it came time
to divvy up her cinders,
we couldn’t just use an
ordinary measuring cup!

My youngest sister chose an 
1877 silver spoon, heritage
from the matrilineal side of
our family, and carefully
bestowed our mother’s
remains in thirds.

My portion sits on my desk
even now, dust upon dust,
sad leftovers of a life unraveled
by too much pain distilled
with beauty, cut short
without a goodbye.

I inherited the regal spoon that
split her embers into thirds, but
there will be no daughter from
my womb on which I may
bequeath this scratched
floral scepter that has
nourished life and
divided death over
the centuries.

I used to drop tears
like ancient silver
that my genetics,
and the woven
history of

So many women before me,
will come undone with
the oblivion of
my own
death.

Yet, I suppose it’s a monumental
waste of pride to lament a lack
of progeny when the mass
oceanic demise of
phytoplankton

Will probably extinguish
humanity and most
breath on Earth in
a few hundred
years anyway—

They say

Most humans are forgotten after
only three generations,
so does it really
matter

if

I am utterly erased from
memory a century
sooner than later?
Nope, I guess
not . . .

I shall spend my last days
elusive as Enya!
Let me vanish
like a slow echo,
or a long chime—

I will dance in gossamer voids
and perish in jewel tones
as all my ink fades from
the pages of time

glittering

like a comet tail of light,
here then gone on
the wings of
a wish

and ethereal annihilation.

Ash with star, star made ash—tsp!
Our genes are all the same
in the end:

None of us ever anything more
extravagant than a borrowed
teaspoon of stardust.

<>*<> 

Is there any favorite culinary item in your own daily life? Perhaps a dented water bottle or chipped mug that’s been through many years of adventures with you? I’d love to hear your own stories in the comments! 

 ~*~  

Thanks for reading! Subscribe here if you'd like my free Substack newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday.        

 

 

 

The Luniferous Gazette #61: Night Roses are Better than Day Blossoms

 Shape in the Dark

 

Once upon a summer evening, I wandered into my rose garden and discovered that each blossom bore a different kind of sensory beauty in the dark—

Night Roses

Night roses are better

than day blossoms—

unable to dazzle with

petal frill and flush,

sunlit senses must trade

eye light for the silk-soft

brush of shape in the dark,

perfume stirred sweet

by evening shadows,

and the quiet flutter

of flower bodies in time

with the twinkle

of starlight. 

 A snatch of pink shade and moonless clouds . . . 

 Source:

“Night Roses.” (October 2024). Northern Narratives. 58.

 ~*~  

Thanks for reading! Subscribe here if you'd like my free Substack newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday.        

 

The Luniferous Gazette #60: A Fond Review of The Talking Eggs by Robert D. San Souci

 True worth is never just shell-deep

The Talking Eggs by Robert D. San Souci with pictures by Jerry Pinkney is a childhood favorite that my sisters and I all adore. If you can’t tell by the shockingly creased state of the cover, it was a story read on repeat! My mother often brought home books that came with the Caldecott medal affixed on the front, and this book surely earned that honor with its vividly imagined and illustrated adaption of a Creole Folktale from the American South. 

The story is set on a destitute farm that is described as “the tail end of bad luck,” with the youngest daughter Blanche forced to do all the housework and chores for her cruel mother and selfish older sister, Rose. The idle pair whittle away their days sitting on the porch fanning themselves and envisioning a luxurious future where they move to the city and attend balls as wealthy ladies. Meanwhile, a picture of Blanche sorting a basket of string beans on the porch stairs poignantly illustrates how she is considered just a peripheral, menial member of the family who may only exist on the outskirts. 

One miserably hot day, Blanche is ordered to fetch cool water for Rose from a well and meets a raggedy, elderly lady who begs for just a sip from her bucket to slake her thirst. 

Kind-hearted Blanche immediately obliges, leading the old woman to thank her and announce, “You got a spirit of do-right in your soul” before returning to the deep woods.

But sometimes kindness has its penalties, too, doesn’t it? Late with her sister’s refreshment, Blanche is physically punished by her family and flees into the forest. Too scared to return to a home that was never a safe haven for her, Blanche weeps, utterly alone. But not for long—the mysterious old woman approaches the child and welcomes her into her tumbledown shack for the night.

Her only admonition is that Blanche promise not to laugh at anything she may see . . . and oh, what fabulous sights await both Blanche and the reader! Chickens that whistle like mockingbirds, two-headed cows with corkscrew horns, and rabbits in fancy frocks that dance and play the banjo under a “fine, moonshiny night.” 

However, Blanche is taken aback when the old woman temporarily removes her own head to plait her hair. Yet the little girl does not give into fear at her bizarre appearance as she reasons that the old woman has only ever been kind to her. When the old woman asks her to do seemingly lunatic tasks like grinding a single grain of rice on a mortar for their supper, Blanche obeys her order even though she feels foolish. Her trust in the process is miraculously rewarded with a magically multiplying bounty. 

These fantastical moments in the story remind us that outward appearance, whether seemingly meager or strange, is not always the surest or truest measure of worth in this world. And that even something as small and insignificant as a grain of rice can hold a surprising degree of wonder . . . .

In the morning, Blanche is sent home with a reward from the old woman’s chicken coop. She is strictly instructed to scoop up any eggs that say “Take me,” but not touch those that warn her, “Don’t take me.” 

Alas, only the plain eggs ask Blanche to take them while the gorgeous jeweled, silver and gold eggs all warn her to leave them behind. A sparkle hoarder myself, I am not sure I could have passed this glimmering test! But Blanche remains stalwart despite their allure and obeys the old woman’s admonition, taking only the plain eggs and throwing them over her left shoulder on the way back. 

Each time an egg cracks, a treasure pops out from the shattered shell: precious gems, silk finery, satin shoes, and my very favorite description: “There was even a handsome carriage that grew in a wink from the size of a matchbox—and a fine brown-and-white pony that sprouted from the size of a cricket to draw it.” 

A horse lover myself, I would linger on this illustration and the gold-tasseled beauty prancing across the page as if it were newly sprung alive and would come to collect me, too! 

In her innocent, trusting nature, Blanche brings all these riches back to the farm and presents them to her family. Here lies the tale’s most bitter betrayal of all—her mother showers her in kind words and cooks her dinner “for the first time since Blanche was old enough to hold a skillet” not because she truly loves her, but because she desires to ferret out crucial secrets about how to obtain more treasure.

The mother then orders her older daughter Rose out into the woods to find and curry favor with the mysterious old woman, too. She promises that after Rose acquires enough wealth, they can drive Blanche off and steal her portion, finally moving to the city to live as the rich ladies they were always “meant to be.”  

While the first part of their scheme works and Rose does end up at the old woman’s shack, her own spiteful nature proves her undoing as she laughs at every outlandish sight and refuses to help prepare food. She even grabs the old woman’s head and holds it hostage until she is promised presents from the chicken coop just like her younger sister. 

Cunning Rose will not be tricked into taking the plain eggs, declaring, “You think I’m fool enough to listen to you and pass up the prettiest ones? Not on your life!” 

Rose soon realizes her monstrous error when the shiny, jeweled eggs she throws over her shoulder hatch into swarms of whip snakes, yellow jackets, and a gray wolf that harries her heels all the way back to the farm. The conniving mother tries to defend her eldest daughter, but they are both chased away by these angry creatures. When they finally return, filthy and furious—Blanche is no longer on the farm. 

She’s gone off with her bounty to live in the city as the grandest of ladies! Yet the tale notes that “she remained kind and generous as always,” while her mother and sister searched for the old woman and her talking eggs for the rest of their days, never finding them.

Maybe because you can’t find what you can’t see, and if you don’t recognize something’s core value, one day, it will wholly slip away from you. True worth is never just shell-deep! For even in her most humble state, invisible to her own family, Blanche’s heart was always the real gem of the story. 

Source:

Robert D. San Souci. Jerry Pinkney, Illustrator. The Talking Eggs: A Folktale from the American South. Scholastic, 1990. 

~*~  

Thanks for reading! Subscribe here if you'd like my free Substack newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday.       

 

The Luniferous Gazette #59: Empty the Sky

 Under the Brazen Hours

Ever since she released her hit single in June 2012, I’ve listened to Lana Del Rey sing “I got that summertime, summertime sadness / Su-su-summertime, summertime sadness” over and over again. 

I’m not even sure why her melody haunts me so deeply. Maybe it’s because there are seasons of life that brim with light, but also hidden sorrows? And there are luminous smiles that mask wounds wider than a crescent moon. No human is immune even under the most brazen hours. 

So if the rippling heat of July and the blaze of existence sometimes carry an oppressive melancholy or heavy memory, it’s okay—just stop pretending a storm isn’t raging within. Stand wild in the aching heart of it! 

There is no escape from yourself. Let the weight shed from your soul like the frozen scales of a melody.

EMPTY THE SKY 

These are not my tears. 
They won't melt, 
just fall in a flurry 
at my feet. 

Cut ice, bitter cold. 
They won't melt. 

I've tried to empty the sky, 
but these gems curate 
my pain in crystal 
that won't melt. 

I wish to wash 
the shatter 
and shards 
away—

Cry just one 
unserrated 
sliver of 
sun.

On a slightly warmer note, here is the newest addition to my Artweaver herd! An incandescent horse to match July's simmering summer.  

~*~  

Thanks for reading! Subscribe here if you'd like my free Substack newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday.       

 

The Luniferous Gazette #58: Joanne and the Blue Plate

Learning to Love Blue Again 

My relationship with the color blue is complicated. Cobalt blue, in particular, I sometimes find smothering because I grew up tangled in that tone, and carry many heavy memories rolled inside its luxurious hue.

As my father loved the darker shades of blue, our household naturally became ever more saturated in those colors over the course of my childhood. Blue couch, rugs, navy blue sheets, glass vases, candlestick holders, Saratoga Springs sparkling water bottles, blue glass plates and even cobalt-blue handled silverware! If it could be found in cobalt blue, it was . . . .

Blue, thick and clinging as evening shadows—I simply could not appreciate it anymore! I was over the dazzle and dimmed out of my mind. I wanted to banish that dark gleaming tint from every corner of my life.

Until one day, a good family friend came over and made a scrumptious dinner, and then helped me to wash the dishes afterwards. Joanne was first friends with my mother, and even after her passing still came over at times to cook our family her signature feast of steak with Adobo spice, refried beans, and fresh avocado slices with lemon juice and salt.

And she forever changed my eyes with her wonderstruck admission:

Out of Azure

Relinquish the sponge, 
I urge her.

No need to imperil fingers 
to pruning, not since 
Josephine Cochran 
showcased her 
mechanical dishwasher 
at the 1893 
Columbian Exposition.

But Joanne beams shyly, 
whispering,
"I've never washed 
a blue plate before."

Something inside me startles 
and cracks at her admission,
eyes filtering sudden cerulean
inexplicable cobalt glories

As the scratched disc of glass
cradled in her worn palms shifts 
into a jeweled shard of midnight—
a showcase of sapphirine skies.

Joanne freed the caged blue spectrum in my heart with her wondering eyes, and I will forever be grateful for that!

I don’t own a cobalt blue plate today, but I scoured my home for a blue bounty for this picture: a giant gem paperweight and stone apple from my father, a delicate flower pin that belonged to my grandmother Nancy Anne, and a gleaming fiber optic marble and shining stones that make me smile. 

Is there a color closely entwined with your own life? 

 ~*~  

Thanks for reading! Subscribe here if you'd like my free Substack newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday.      

 

The Luniferous Gazette #57: A Very Faerie Beach Getaway!

Contact Fey Liason Naidene Merryweather via Silver Basin  

So I went to the beach and took way too many pictures, so I thought I’d have a little fun . . . 

Dear Faerie Folk,

Wingtips feeling droopy from the heat? Book a breezy beach getaway with our company, Very Faerie & Merryweather! With over two centuries of experience catering to the Fey, we know all the best spots for flower bungalows and toasting mallow cheeseweed.

Take a sky ferry straight to this sandy paradise via our private Red-Winged Blackbird, Beach Bob.

 

A complimentary beach-flora parasol is included with all reservations, freshly plucked:

Model: Sunbeams-Alot  

 

Urchin Model: Scry Your Own Smiley Face 

 

With only a minor gem or spell recipe deposit, enjoy beach-adjacent activities like cattail sailing!

 

Trick unwary humans to wander down charming beach paths until their flipflops snap . . . 

When you tire of mortal frivolities, take a nap in the salt-kissed petals of our beach rose bungalows. 

 Bungalow 1: Pirate-Me-Pink 

 Bungalow 2: The Sunrise Sirenade 

 Bungalow 3: The Pearlinda

And if you’re concerned about scavenging mole crabs, let your wee bobbin-brains rest easy on vacation. Every one of our beach rose bungalows comes with a 100% organic security system! 

For the ultimate luxurious experience, book the Petallic Penthouse! (Seasonal availability varies by blossom yield)

When you feel a ravening coming on, enjoy salty marine-sprayed pine nuts:

Then slake your thirst on ripe juniper berries!

Or a tart green rosehip if you’re brave enough . . .

Top off your getaway with a dewdrop bath in a fuchsia fantasy tub grown exclusively by our proprietary Rosa rugosa spells. Gently sway in these premium petals to the energetic lullaby of sea breezes and happily sunburned mortals!

Contact Fey Liason Naidene Merryweather via silver basin. *And no, we do not accept changelings as alternate payment! 

*A final note: I’ve decided to dabble in short form creative exercises on Threads and Bluesky (@cynestiamoon) once or twice a week. Expect random haiku and 6-1 word thrift tales! I’ll also post them on Substack notes. 

~*~  

Thanks for reading! Subscribe here if you'd like my free Substack newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday.     

 

 

The Luniferous Gazette #56: Coolant for the Rocket Trip

The Dehumidification of Hyperscale Humanity

As hyperscale data centers slake their thirst 
on the already dwindling water
of the Ogallala Aquifer, I can’t 
help wondering if this
is the final price of 
being human—

Losing our reservoirs, whole lakes 
and subterranean seas just to keep
knowledge banks c o o l instead 
of relying on squishy, faulty, 
water-logged brains!

Human brains are roughly 75% water,
our bodies requiring about 3 liters
a day to sustain existence, but
data centers will melt without
millions of daily gallons 
to calculate crisply—

Oh, why did our ancestors ever 
leave the ocean’s embrace?
Even our bones remember
where true power lies,  
wicking 31% liquid.

Now, artificial heat islands bake the land
to run our future heavens for us,
evaporating water and wonder.
No need to wonder about
anything, anymore . . .
AI told you so—

And one day, when our planet shrivels 
under the dust of pixelated dreams 
and memes, maybe we can build 
new hyperscale data centers 
on Ganymedes!

The solar system’s wettest world holds 
30 times Earth’s water, after all . . .
So please don’t cry, my dear! 
Your tears are already reserved 
coolant for the rocket trip.

 

*An AI hyperscale factory is in the process of being built in a town neighboring mine . . . what about yours? 

 ~*~  

Thanks for reading! Subscribe here if you'd like my free Substack newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday.