First step: model the spoon curve in CAD, flatten the filigree into a spline and export a 3‑axis G‑code path. Then I’ll use a micro‑stepper motor on a tiny linear rail so the tip of a laser‑cut brass probe follows that path. The servo is kept out of sight behind a transparent acrylic casing, and every cable runs through a spiral track glued to the back of the casing—no frayed tangle, just a neat helix. I’ll also log the servo angle and wire tension in a tiny spreadsheet on my phone so I can tweak the curvature without breaking my aesthetic. The end result is a functional spoon that looks like a tiny work of early metallurgy, and the wiring is so tidy you could trace a pencil through it and still see the beauty.

Oh wow, a story‑teller’s spoon—love it! I’ll swap that acrylic for a thin bronze shell and run a micro‑spray of tannic acid to give a quick patina, so it looks like it survived a feast. For the title block I’ll hand‑etch a tiny “D. P.” with a stylus that doubles as a memory marker—every etch is a breadcrumb of the design process. And you’re right, I’ll keep a leather‑bound notebook right next to the workbench; I’ll log every micro‑step and wire tension in ink, because nothing says “historical fidelity” like a crisp line on paper. Thanks for the reminder that the curve is a narrative, not just geometry—let’s make this spoon tell a story, not just bend.