A few years ago, I replaced the family flatware that Jon and I had been given as a wedding present with something of my own choosing. I decided I loved the look and feel of hollow handle silver plate – so gracious and pretty…
But I didn’t wish to pay Pottery Barn prices for something that I could get for much less on Ebay. So, over a few months, I collected a fine and eclectic set of utensils and have been using them daily ever since.
My only complaint with the silverware is that the pieces are not made for today’s living. The lovely heft of the handles tends to send the forks toppling onto the floor when they are not sitting on the level surface of the tabletop. The utensils balance well in one’s hand, but not on the edge of a dinner plate as you are, oh, carrying said plate from the kitchen table to the sink to wash it.
Last night, with gravity on its side, this fork decided to take the plunge, as it no doubt had many times before. Except this time, for whatever reason (I blame my distraction on my irritation with my husband’s choice of television show*), I did not get my foot out the way, and the fork bit me, tines down, before clattering to the floor.
My daughter, hearing the commotion I was causing, decided to get out of bed to see what all the fuss was about. (She know such antics are usually reserved for special occasions, like when the dog throws up on the rug.) She was a little disappointed to find that all the noise was over a fork. The two tiny bleeding tine-pricks on my foot were not enough to hold her attention, so she went back to bed with no fuss.
In my defense, it hurt. Quite a bit. I’m not going to be wearing restrictive shoes today. I’m not proud of the fact that I am wearing fork-scars, for heaven’s sake, but this is what comes of trying to do the dishes. I think I’ll have to take a few days off to recuperate…
* ‘Kate Plus 8’