Well, it finally happened. We lost the fork.
This is not a euphemism. This is not like when you are trying to describe how things just went south in a relationship and you say “I don’t know what happened: one day we were so happy, and then, I dunno, somehow we just lost the fork.” No, when I say “we lost the fork,” that is exactly what I mean. We had one fork, and then we lost it. We are now, officially, the “House of Spoons.” Which is ironic, because last summer we lost all of our spoons and became known as the “House of Forks.” I guess that’s what happens when the after school snack of choice goes from being cereal to ramen.
Of course, that explains the “why” of forks vs. spoons. (Forks vs. Spoons. Best gang fight EVER. “When you’re a fork you’re a fork for the rest of your life…”) It doesn’t, however, explain the “how.” As in “How in the hell do these people manage to lose ALL of the silverware? And by “these people,” I mean, of course, my children.
Yes, I’m sure it’s my children. Why? I don’t know, maybe because before they came along I managed to live for years with the same set of silverware? In fact, I didn’t even realize that silverware was something you had to buy more than once in your life. I mean, it’s not like it ever wears out. It’s not like people eat their way through spoons. I have a set of silver that belonged to my great-great grandmother that will, conceivably, still be around for my great-great grandchildren to enjoy. Not a single item shows any sign of “lick fatigue.” (And no, those particular forks are not included in the household fork tally. In fact, I have made sure my children have no idea where that silverware is hidden. Some people might worry about their delinquent offspring selling the heirloom silver for drug money: I worry about them using it to eat take out.)
Speaking of which, I should probably order out more often, if for no other reason than to get the plastic silverware that comes with it. Because right now even a broken spork would get a place of honor at my house.
The thing about all of the lost forks is that I have absolutely no idea where they go. Lost phones, lost homework, lost bus passes—these I can picture easily enough, abandoned on busses and car roofs and bathrooms. And I have seen enough single gloves lying forlornly in the middle of the road to have no doubt where all of the lost gloves go. But forks? I have yet to see a lost fork in a bathroom (thank god), or a bus for that matter. I have seen a few lying in the road (and yeah, I always giggle at the sight of a “fork in the road”), but not nearly enough to make me think that losing them that way is even remotely common. (And no, I don’t know what “that way” entails: I have a hard time imagining a scenario that involves leaving your fork on the top of the car.)
I have tried, over the years, to enforce various “no food outside of the kitchen” rules, but real life always manages to get in the way. When it comes down to a choice between letting them carry their meals to different parts of the house (and beyond) and not eating at all, I tend to go with the former.
At least I do when there are plates and silverware to carry. Something tells me though that this is going to be the winter of eating with out fingers over the sink. And no: that’s not a euphemism either.