The Little Stool’s Big Job

My favorite place was beside the kitchen counter. From there, I could see the mixing bowls, the fruit basket, and the cookie tin that always seemed to be empty when someone looked inside.

I was not always a stool. I began as smooth boards in a workshop, where Nora and her dad made me together. Nora wore a yellow apron and held the sandpaper in both hands.

“Is this side smooth enough?” she asked.

Dad ran his fingers over the wood. “Let’s see.”

Nora rubbed the board again, back and forth, until it felt as smooth as a tabletop. Then Dad helped her fit my legs into place. Nora tapped each one with a small wooden mallet. Tap, tap, tap. She brushed on a coat of honey-colored paint, and I dried beside the open window.

When I was ready, Nora crouched to look at me.

“You’re just the right size,” she said. “You can help in the kitchen.”

That was how I came to stand beside the counter. I had a job at last, though I was still learning what a kitchen helper did.

One evening, Nora and Dad brought a basket of apples to the counter. The apples were round and red, with little leaves still tucked near their stems. Dad set out a bowl, a wooden spoon, and a pie plate.

“We’re making cinnamon apples,” Dad told Nora. “I could use an extra pair of hands.”

“I’ll help!” Nora said. She washed her hands and tied her apron.

I waited beside the counter, ready for whatever came next. Nora sliced the apples with Dad’s help and dropped them into the bowl. Dad added a spoonful of sugar. Then he looked toward the high shelf.

“The cinnamon is up there,” he said. “Could you get it, Nora?”

Nora stood on her toes. The jar was just beyond her fingers.

“I can’t reach,” she said. Then she glanced down at me. “But I know what can help.”

She pulled me closer to the counter, and I felt proud to be called into service. Still, I had no idea that a tiny scrap of paper was waiting beneath one of my feet.

Nora placed me near the counter. Dad stood close by, watching as she put one foot on my top.

“Hold on,” he said. “Let’s make sure you’re steady.”

Nora shifted her weight. I rocked to one side, then bumped back the other way.

“Whoa,” Nora said, stepping down. “You’re wobbly!”

I felt embarrassed. I wanted to be useful, but my legs didn’t seem to know how to stand still. Dad checked the floor, then looked at my feet.

“Maybe something is underneath,” he said.

Nora crouched beside me. She peered at the floor, but the kitchen light made a long shadow beneath my seat. She gave me another careful nudge. I rocked again.

“I could use a chair,” she said. “Or maybe Dad could reach it.”

Dad looked at the high shelf. “I can reach it, but I think we can figure out why your stool is wobbling first.”

Nora bent lower. She looked at each of my legs, one by one. Then she tilted her head and spotted a little corner of paper sticking out from beneath my back foot.

“There it is!” she said. “A paper scrap is caught under you.”

She slid it free. It was a small piece from a flour bag, folded into a lumpy square. No wonder I had been rocking!

Nora set the paper on the counter and pressed gently on each side of me. I stood still. She checked my feet again, then pushed me lightly from the front.

“Flat and steady,” she said.

Dad nodded. “Now I’ll stay right beside you.”

Nora climbed onto me, placing both feet in the middle. This time, I did not wobble. She reached up and wrapped her fingers around the cinnamon jar.

“I’ve got it!” she said.

She brought it down carefully, and Dad took it from her hands. Together, they sprinkled cinnamon over the apples. A warm, spicy smell rose from the bowl and filled the kitchen.

Nora patted my top. “You helped us, little stool.”

I stood firm beneath her hand. The scrap of paper was gone, my feet rested flat, and I had done the job Nora made me for.

Dad stirred the apples while Nora watched the cinnamon disappear among the slices. The wooden spoon scraped softly around the bowl, and the apples made a quiet, juicy sound.

“Just a little more,” Dad said.

Nora shook a few extra grains of cinnamon from the jar. Then she set it on the counter, well away from the edge.

“Ready for the pie plate?” Dad asked.

Nora held the plate while he tipped in the apples. They slid together with a damp, sweet plop. Dad tucked the last slices into the corners, and Nora wiped a tiny bit of cinnamon from the counter with a cloth.

I stayed beside them, pleased to be part of the busy little kitchen. I remembered Nora’s hands sanding my boards, tapping my legs into place, and brushing on my paint. Now those same hands had found the paper beneath my foot and made me steady again.

The pie went into the oven. Dad set the timer, and Nora put the mixing bowl in the sink. While they waited, she sat at the table and drew a picture of me beside the counter. She gave me four straight legs and a little yellow flower painted on top.

“That’s my stool,” she said, showing Dad.

“It’s a fine helper,” he replied.

When the apples were ready, Dad brought the warm pie to the table. Nora watched the steam curl above it as he spooned a serving onto her plate. She tasted a small bite and nodded.

“More cinnamon next time,” she said.

Dad laughed. “We’ll remember.”

After supper, Nora carried her drawing to her room. Dad washed the pie plate, and the kitchen grew quiet. Nora came back to say good night. She ran one hand along my smooth wooden seat, then tucked me back beside the counter.

“Rest up,” she whispered. “You did a good job today.”

I stood on all four feet, steady on the clean kitchen floor. The cinnamon jar sat safely on the shelf, the pie plate was dry, and the house settled into its nighttime hush. I was right where I belonged, ready to rest until Nora needed a helper again.