Story: The Farmhouse Table That Learned to Breathe
An heirloom table wore a thick synthetic coat that cracked at the seams. Steam from tea cups etched cloudy rings, and every scrape revealed pallid wood below. It looked sealed, yet it suffered—stiff, airless, and strangely fragile against ordinary family life.
Story: The Farmhouse Table That Learned to Breathe
We stripped carefully, warmed pure tung, and fed the fibers over several slow evenings. The room smelled faintly of citrus and honey as beeswax burnishing awakened figure. By week’s end, the top felt resilient, welcoming, and unmistakably wooden—alive, not laminated in perpetual gloss.