• Melissa Pasanen
• Three phases of a wooden spoon

What I gained from the January 29 Snow Season "Spooning" workshop at Montpelier's North Branch Nature Center: 1) hands-on education in which trees yield softer wood receptive to the efforts of neophyte carvers, and 2) slightly more confidence when using hatchets and other digit-threatening tools.

What I did not gain: a hand-carved wooden spoon.

Ken Benton, the nature center's director of education, foreshadowed that possibility during his introduction, cautioning, "Don't expect to come away with a perfectly finished spoon."

The knowledgeable and extremely patient workshop leader reminded participants that the five-hour event was the kitchen-utensil version of a farm-to-fork meal, in which diners follow their food from source to plate.

• Melissa Pasanen
• Participants at the North Branch Nature Center spoon-carving workshop

Many spoon-carving workshops start with a prefinished block of wood — called a "blank" — in a rough spoon shape. This forest-to-spoon session entailed venturing out among the trees, harvesting raw material, hacking small logs down to size and then carving them into spoons.

"We could start with a spoon blank," Benton said, "but then you wouldn't know how we got to that point."

• Melissa Pasanen
• Rebecca Hill (left) working with guidance from Ken Benton

Crafting an ostensibly simple spoon began to seem as magical and unobtainable as Rumpelstiltskin spinning gold from straw.

"I'll never look at a hand-carved wooden spoon the same way again," agreed Rebecca Hill, 66, of Montpelier. She had signed up in search of a relaxing hobby but admitted that Benton's overview struck her as "a bit daunting." Hill reflected that she shouldn't have been surprised: "We're starting with a piece of a tree and making it into this beautiful, smooth, usable object."

Under softly falling snowflakes, Benton guided the group into the trees, explaining how to identify species and gather the best carving wood. He always harvests from downed limbs or trees that need pruning. "I go with what nature gives me," he said.

• Melissa Pasanen
• Ken Benton outlining a spoon

We carried logs of black willow, basswood and butternut to our chopping blocks. Everyone picked up hatchets with varying degrees of confidence — zero, in my case.

Students, who had paid $50 for the workshop, ranged in age from thirties to seventies and hailed from as far as Wheelock. Tom Shughrue, 61, had recently retired to Websterville from Dallas. He was looking for something to do over the "very long winter," he said.

Marissa Gerdes, 33, and Luke Spencer, 31, relocated five months ago from Ohio to Barre, where Spencer landed a teaching job. The couple are cultivating a tradition of doing something crafty together to celebrate their birthdays.

Gerdes said she was feeling nervous, "having never touched a hatchet before." I commiserated.

• Melissa Pasanen
• From left: Russell Ruff, Andrea Z-Covey and Rebecca Hill working on shave horses

More experienced participants included state Sen. Andrew Perchlik, 54, of Marshfield and Celina Landry, 36, of Barre. Both were eager to learn about different woods and how to optimize wood grain when carving.

Wood chips and curls piled up as spoons progressed under hatchets and bow saws, then fixed-blade wood-carving knives, drawknives, bent gouges and spokeshaves.

Some of us had more success than others. No one lost a digit, though a few fingers had minor misadventures. "I have a spoon!" celebrated Lee Youngman, 60, of Orange, adding wryly, "...that is covered in my own blood."

I avoided bleeding, but my "spoon" better resembled a misshapen spatula.

"What did your first spoon look like?" Youngman asked Benton.

"Firewood," Benton responded, giving me hope that, if I kept at it, I might someday stir a pot with a spoon of my own making.