The Silver Antiques Insider

Silver Spoons: A Tarnished Reputation?

I was in bed, propped up by pillows, flip-flopping my Venetian blinds on a dull, grey day when there was a commotion in the hallway and a thundering knock at my door. “Lauren, ya in there?”

Alice! “This ought to be good,” I thought. I hobbled to the door and let her in. “Hi!” She said as she shoved past me into the kitchen with a Tupperware container wedged in her armpit. “How are ya?”

“Oh, I’ve been better. This hip-”

She cut me off with a compassionate nod. “Heard ‘bout that. Haven’t ate yet have ya?” I shook my head no. “Thought ya could use some soup.” She had already located my pot and emptied into it the contents of her Tupperware - chicken stock by the looks of it, with rice and a hearty mix of colourful veggies. As it warmed on the stove she regaled me with laundry room gossip and then ladled the soup into a bowl. When I reached for the condiments and strained with the effort she scooped up the peppershaker and generously peppered my soup.

“Thank you, Alice.”

“Anything else?”

“Only a sterling tureen could have topped this Alice.” I tittered in spite of myself. From the look on her face I gathered the joke could use some explanation. “My old Auntie Beryl used to say that food always tasted better when it was served in sterling silver.”

“Little too rich for me!” Alice said. She slid her bum down off the counter and joined me at the table. “But you could try askin’ O-----.”

O-----? Here we go. “The superintendent?” I had no idea he appreciated fine silver.

She nodded with eyes wide. “Word’s goin’ round – he’s been swipin’ spoons - silver spoons – has been since forever. Keep an eye on him.”

Now, I’d be a fool to believe everything Alice tells me. For the time being I’d prefer to grant my super the benefit of doubt. My neighbour’s garrulous nature has landed her in hot water on more than one occasion, though in this instance she has stirred up a critical issue. According to this article from the Museum Security Network, thieves don’t always go after high-value goods. Often the risk is lower and the resale value is greater when they steal a lower quality or less remarkable piece.

Apart from Judo lessons and spy cameras I can offer no real advice on protecting your collection from home invasions and targeted theft. That’s not my area of expertise.

But (here’s an awful thought) should you someday become a victim of property crime there are steps you can take today to facilitate the recovery process. Most importantly, keep a detailed catalogue of your antique collection and be sure to include photographs. In the future I’ll have to put together an article about catalogue techniques, so stay tuned for that. Until then, here’s a rundown of crime prevention tactics from the Metropolitan Police Service and two full lists of stolen fine art and antiques to watch out for: one from the United Kingdom, and another (at the bottom of the page) from the New York-area.

Well, They Say It Goes Straight To Your Hips

Earliest archaeological evidence traces chocolate back to Central America sometime around 1100 BC where it was consumed not as a candy bar, but as a beverage. Far from the sweet treat we know today, the Aztecs imbibed xocolātl, or “bitter water,” a concoction of crushed cacao beans, annatto, chili powder and other spices muddled in warm water.

Following its appropriation by Spain in the 16th century spices were removed from the xocolātl recipe and milk and sugar were added to the mix to counteract the cacao bean’s natural bitterness. Ere long, "hot chocolate" was melting hearts all over Europe and the chocolate pot became de rigueur. Designers stepped up to produce some of the most elegant specimens out of porcelain and precious metals.

For all their efforts, sometimes it can be difficult to tell the difference between a chocolate pot and a coffee pot. Check out this fine silver chocolate pot from the online catalogue of Nelson & Nelson Antiques and pay particular attention to the spout. Due to the viscosity of its intended contents the chocolate pot usually has a shorter spout while the coffee pot has a longer spout that occasionally comes equipped with a filter. Most chocolate pots have a horizontal handle and a vertical stir stick. In this case, the hinged berry finial can be removed to make way for the molinet.

Anyway, I thought hot chocolate would be the perfect treat to take on my recent skating date with the Luckhurst clan but since Emily is still trying to keep the kids away from both dairy and sugar I opted for a good old-fashioned xocolātl instead. Dagoba’s prepackaged variety is no longer available (has it been discontinued or are they just out of stock?) so I whipped up a batch to my own taste loosely based on Uncle Phaedrus’s "cacahuatl" recipe. I woke up early on New Year’s Day and filled a whole fat thermos with my spicy elixir before heading down to Rockefeller Center.

Surprisingly the kids wanted nothing to do with the xocolātl - their mugs went cold on the bench. I suppose they were keen to hit the ice. Emily blew on her mug and sniffed it tentatively. Her brow furrowed, “Is there nutmeg in this?”

“Hm-m. That could be the achiote oil.”

She sipped it politely and took in a sharp breath of winter air. She then moved on to the tiresome subject of her romantic woes and seemed to forget all about the mug in her hands. “More for me!” I thought, and poured myself a second cup.

Eventually, with arms extended and ankles sagging, I joined the flock of besweatered couples out on the ice. Despite a close brush with a miniature Bobby Orr and the distracting feats of the ice nymph I circumnavigated the rink thrice without a single spill. It was exhilarating! I collapsed on the bench and, in all my excitement, downed the last of the xocolātl before hugging Emily, waving goodbye to the children, and heading off for home.

Long story shortened: I took ill partway home and was forced to make boom in a department store restroom. Then, upon exiting the stall, I slipped in a large puddle of pink soap, went arse over chocolate pot and smashed my hip on the marble floor.

Now I’m laid up in bed with an aching frame and an unsightly tri-colour bruise. The doctor has assured me that no bones are broken. “Nothing a good solid week of bed rest can’t fix,” she said. "Well, Happy New Year to me!" I thought. Oh, so be it. I’ve got a large supply of chamomile tea and I’m eager to crack open the anagram puzzle book that I got for Christmas. Who knows? I may even get around to reading Middlemarch.

2008! It's Gonna To Be Great!

Happy New Year from Nelson & Nelson Antiques!

I was propped up in my reading chair last night with a steaming mug of Awake tea and the full intention of greeting the New Year but as per usual my chin hit my chest sometime before midnight. Call it a tradition.

I can now recall only parts of a long dream that took place primarily in a chandeliered ballroom where masquerading guests loomed and purled like apparitions reflected in the textured surface of Gorham’s Martelé hollowware.

I awoke in a sweat to a brightly lit apartment and a dizzying loop from Bartok’s String Quartet #4. I rose from my chair and stretched, then crossed the room and pulled the needle off the record. Scamper Bill squinted at me with a measure of derision and yawned. A melancholy sigh from the steam radiator punctuated my decision to retire. I had already kicked off my slippers and removed my cardigan when I was blasted out of my skin by the echoing report of fireworks. I rushed to my window just as revelers took to the streets with noisemakers and I beamed as Roman Candles popped and crackled in multi-coloured arcs and children danced around glistening puddles on the sidewalk chanting “2008! It’s gonna be great!”

“Indeed,” I concurred. “Indeed!”