I have an unreasonable dislike of small forks. Not just any small forks, just the ones I own. You may even say, I hate them for the feelings they invoke in my spirit.
Let me attempt to explain how my head sorts through just one of many things that courses through it on an hourly basis, and then I’ll leave it to you to imagine how every basic element of my life goes through these types of thought processes…times 100. Daily. Exhausted yet? I am.
Let’s say you purchase a set of utensils and organize them in a drawer, waiting for an occasion to set the table with style and flair. My small forks are hidden. Why don’t I get rid of them? I don’t know, when am I ever rational?
I remember a time in my life when I would see my small forks and only be reminded of the lessons we learned from a debonaire and toupee’d Hector Elizondo in “Pretty Woman.” We all knew if given the opportunity to attend a formal event, we would know exactly which utensil will be used for what based on the placement on the table. What a gloriously naive time in my life. I often wish to go back there.
For the last 5+ years, small forks are a tangible representation of my depression. Weird, huh?
How I’ve dreamed of this elaborate romantic table setting for two where I’d prepare decadent meals for my beloved. You have no idea how much I love to be domestic when given the opportunity. I would give anything to spoil a man regularly. It’s not something I tire of, it’s something I love to do. I LOVE IT. I can make my own money and bring home my own bacon, but let me crumble that salty delight over the cream sauce I made from scratch enveloping the baked chicken atop the seasoned noodles…..for you. Let’s share this dessert I baked from an old family recipe – one plate, two small forks.
At some point, those small forks would be the utensils for those tiny humans with my smile and his ears. They would need to use these because the larger forks are difficult to maneuver with such short fingers. They would help set the table at this point in their chubby-legged lives; each one having their own small fork they use for every meal. Maybe we’ve marked them by this point because we’ve learned the sibling rivalry at meal time isn’t worth it. Over the heads of our babes, we’d steal a glance and half-smile at the memories of those small forks in our courting years. The incredible salads we ate & desserts we fed each other using them; the joy of those moments almost eclipsed by the absolute bliss of the family we have now despite the many hardships relationships face. We prevailed and look! Look at what we made.
You see, small forks aren’t just four mini-tined metal objects I toss into my utensil organizer that’s stuffed in my kitchen drawer. A depressed mind can project these unrealistic expectations and importance on things you’ve probably walked by/used/ignored/had collecting dust in your everyday life. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t take a peek where I’ve hidden those small forks. For the way I loathe them as this glaring reminder of what I feel is missing in my life; there’s also an imperceptible nudge, just behind my heart that feels too much, that one day believes I’ll need some masking tape & a Sharpie to distinguish between them.