Segmented Bowl

In a quiet workshop nestled between the pines and the mountains, a man named Elias spent his golden years listening to jazz records and breathing new life into old wood. His hands, worn from years of labor, moved with the grace of memory—each cut, each curve, a dance of patience and purpose.

One autumn morning, with the trees outside catching fire in their fall colors, Elias reached for two of his most treasured pieces of wood: a rich, red padauk that gleamed like sunset embers, and a deep, roasted walnut, dark as forest soil after rain. He had been saving them, waiting for the right idea to arrive.

And that morning, it did—a segmented bowl. Not just any bowl, but one that would hold more than fruit or trinkets. One that would hold stories.

He cut each piece carefully, shaping and joining the segments into rings. The padauk blazed in fiery contrast against the quiet warmth of the walnut. Together, they formed a rhythm—bright and dark, bold and grounded—like a heartbeat made visible in wood.

As the lathe spun and the shape revealed itself, Elias smiled. The bowl was round and generous, its walls smooth as silk. The grain danced in circles, and when light hit it just right, it shimmered with quiet magic.

He finished it with oil that brought the colors to life, and for a moment, he simply stared. Not at the craftsmanship, but at what it meant. The bowl was a symbol of contrast and harmony—like joy and grief, like youth and age, like fire and earth. Together, the padauk and walnut had become something beautiful neither could be alone.

Elias gave the bowl to his granddaughter on her wedding day.

“Fill it with whatever life gives you,” he said. “As long as you hold it with care, it will always be beautiful.”

And it was.

(Made by Glenn Sutter for In The Kitchen Contest)