Vink & Sprogiba
Vink
Hey Sprogiba, ever noticed how a simple wooden spoon can feel like a relic from a forgotten age, and I bet there's a whole saga hidden in its grain?
Sprogiba
Yes, that spoon is a little time‑teller, its wood like a map of sunlit rivers, each grain a whispered story waiting to be read by the next hand that stirs the pot.
Vink
I love that—just imagine the hands that have held it, the meals and musings that passed through its belly, all etched in that bark, a quiet witness to kitchens past.
Sprogiba
It feels like the spoon is a quiet diary, each stir a stanza, the kitchen a little cathedral where crumbs become prayers and every whisked wave writes its own secret.
Vink
Sounds like the spoon’s been preaching to the pot for ages—like a humble priest in a stone‑washed chapel, each swirl a sermon that never quite ends.
Sprogiba
Exactly, the spoon’s preaching like a quiet monk—each swirl a prayer, the pot the altar where flavors mingle and the stove keeps time like a distant choir.