Philip K. Dick's "Pay for the Printer".
There was a big blob like "creature" or machine of some type
Huge and old, it squatted in the center of the settlement park, a lump of ancient
yellow protoplasm, thick, gummy, opaque.
and the people left in this place would feed into it objects left from their civilisation.
On the concrete platform, in front of the dying Biltong, lay a heap of originals
to be duplicated. Beside them, a few prints had been commenced, unformed balls of
black ash mixed with the moisture of the Biltong's body, the juice from which it
laboriously constructed its prints.
It recreated them but they did not actually work although they looked like the item reproduced.
"It's just terrible -- look at this!" She fumbled in her sweater pocket and brought
out a small bright object the size of a dime. "Everything he prints is like this,
now -- or worse."
Fergesson took the watch and examined it, one eye on the road. The strap broke like
a dried leaf between his fingers into small brittle fragments of dark fiber without
tensile strength. The face of the watch looked all right -- but the hands weren't moving.
by the end of the book they had made a spoon I thinks or it could have been a cup.
It was a cup, a wooden drinking cup, crude and ill-shaped. (...)
The knife was as crude as the cup -- hammered, bent, tied together with wire.