Kinfolk's Third Issue came out this past month. I was honored to have a short essay and photograph published in the beautiful magazine. You can pick up a printed copy at Anthropologie -- Can I just say how it tickles me to have my name and photograph in a product carried at one of my all-time favorite stores? It's so much fun!
Here's my written piece and image. I hope you enjoy it. I found it rather freeing to write in such a different style/topic for this publication.
About a month or so after I got married, my new husband and I embarked on a honeymoon which would forever change us. We didn't go to Hawaii or spend a couple weeks in Mexico, we saved our pennies the moment we got serious and set out to live in South India, Vietnam and Turkey for a year. We wanted to see a bit of how the rest of the world lives and get to know ourselves in the process.
In every new village or bustling city we settled into, I purchased a spoon. Or two. In Hanoi, I asked a cafe owner if I may buy the neon orange and baby blue plastic spoons we'd swirled our sweetened ice coffees with and she looked at me perplexed, then giggled (silly American lady!), then threw the tall, colorful utensils in with our bill, refusing to accept the bills I insisted on stuffing into her plaid apron pocket. A variation on this routine was repeated in multiple languages, with the same hand gestures and responses, across the world.
I'm grateful I kept on my happy treasure hunt. I had a hunch this precious collection would delight me with each swirl of my PG Tips and cream, lick of peanut butter in between deadlines or when excitedly delving into a new tub of yogurt and honey while I gaze into the fridge contemplating dinner. Indeed, our worldly gallivants came to an end, and we are now settled into our own cozy palace in the clouds of Portland, Oregon. But I can't shake the sparkly feeling of touching the unknown while on the road with my ritual warm brews and little bites. For a moment, I'm transported . . . We are ducking into a chai shack deep in the coconut groves, motorcycling along the highway with banh mi sandwiches tucked into pockets and sipping black Turkish tea (sugar cubes clenched in our teeth) with the fishermen on Galata Bridge in Istanbul. And in those memories, with my sweet spoons, I am home.