The Lengths One Has To Go To

Hello, there! This time Little Miss CDQ is going to write about food – well, a fork, to be more precise.

Let’s begin.

I’m not terribly good with food, to be honest. I can’t eat if I’m upset, and I can’t eat if I’m happy. I have to go for the window that shows up as “medium”, or middle ground. Anything else, it’s sandwiches and crackers at best, nothing at worst, until the middle ground comes back again. Now, to make sure I eat properly in that narrow margin,I like to have everything in place. My own special 3/4 plate, red with white spots, an old blue bowl with a band (and a small chip) on it, any old knife (well, one of the plain ones), and my fork.

This fork turned up at my house one day and settled into my cutlery drawer like it had always lived there. I have no idea where it came from, but it’s cute. My guess would be circa 1960, 1965. It’s like a 3/4 sized fork. It’s bigger than a cake fork, but smaller than a regular fork, with a squiggly pattern on the handle, and the tines are perfectly straight. No one knew anything about it when I asked, and so I took a fancy to it and claimed it as my own. If it was dirty from use, I would wash it and immediately use it again. I don’t use other forks at all, unless I’m out, and that doesn’t feel right – and, well, if I don’t use my fork, the window for eating is gone anyway, so I don’t bother.

So, I decide to make a roast lunch with all the trimmings as well, including yorkies, mushroom gravy from scratch, the whole nine yards. Mmm mmm. My son and daughter get theirs, then me. Gravy, salt, pepper, napkin, cup of tea (I’m uncouth like that), and –

Hold on.

Where’s my fork? My food is getting cold as I root around looking for it. The drawer, the sink, the lounge, the bedroom (well, you never know), and nothing. Zip. Nada. Fork is gone. Elvis fork has left the building and gone back to where he came from. After all this time. Shit. Quite a bit of swearing follows before – I spot it.

Hey!

My daughter is using it to eat her meal with.

“Erm. You got my fork”
“Really? It was just in the drawer, Ma.”
“No, that’s my fork. You know that. Can I have it, please?”
“Ma, I’m eating!”
“Yes, I know that. Swap it for this one.” I offer a regular fork.

At this point we start to eyeball each other.

“No. You can have it when I’m finished if it means that much to you.”
“Aw, c’mon. Please, please, please?”
“No.. Go away”

I go away, not very happy. I want my fork. I can’t eat without my fork. I need my fork, and I can feel that window of middle ground opportunity slipping away fast. Think, think, think. I go in the kitchen to think.

Her cell phone rings. She puts her meal on the table and heads off to the lounge to answer it. No one’s there.

I’m not surprised, because the person that called her is in the dining room, taking back her fork.