Early on a January morning, two weeks before my birthday quite some years ago, I found myself in the village of Woodstock, Connecticut, in a snow-bound woodworking shack with very little heat, scary power tools, a scarier outhouse, and no coffee.
It was the perfect place to celebrate the end of my 50th birthday year, a year in which I'd promised to make my own gift, and with just a few weeks to go until 51, I did it.
I made a wooden spoon. From scratch. From a tree that fell in Woodstock.