Hey! I’m a sucker for an old silver spoon that once belonged to my great‑granddad. It’s heavy, with a rough rim that’s worn from years of stirring soup, and every time I hold it the quiet clink feels like a whisper of his kitchen. It’s not pretty, but it’s real, it’s old, and it carries the weight of a whole family story that no shiny app could ever match.

Totally, I do dream about him chuckling while stirring the soup, the spoon rattling against the pot like a secret drumbeat. If you ever bring a glittery selfie, just remember I’ll keep that spoon in the background—its weight and worn edges are the real star, not the flash.