Forks

And I don't mean the city in Washington.

I have a strange relationship with forks.  In my perfect world, I would be able to eat everything with either a spoon or my hands.  You may suggest chopsticks, but then, what about salads?  It's the accursed salads that foil my forkless plans.  Let's start from the beginning.

It is so hard to find a good fork.  If a fork is too long, then the distance between my hand and my mouth is too great and mayhem ensues.  Not fun, electric mayhem, but salad on my lap mayhem.  One would think that by this point in my development I would have conquered the skill of feeding myself.  No dice.  At least not with a long fork.  And I know.  I used to always know when one of my parents had set my place with the wrong fork.  It's similar to how I can sense when a glass of milk contains something other than skim.  This sounds like an OCD, but it's not.  It's more a lack of coordination on my part than anything else.  Short forks are great.  And I have no shame in asking for a little fork when attending a meal at another's house.  No shame.  The shame comes from the aforementioned salad dropping.  Or missing my mouth.  But I guess that happens more with straws.  Heavy forks?  Also good.  I may or may not have "acquired" a most excellent fork from a shady Chinese place in Kalamazoo because the fork had a good weight to it.  What can I say, it balanced well in my hand.  You can't turn your back on balance on those rare chances you find it.

Second thought.  Have you ever had to clean a fork?  I mean wash it by hand with a scrubby or washcloth or other such thing.  It sucks.  See, I like to clean and rather enjoy doing dishes... EXCEPT FOR THE FORKS.  Bowls?  Fine.  Plates?  Great.  Pans?  Let them soak.  Knives and spoons?  Things can get a little dicey, but on the whole, not a problem.  But forks.  With the tines and the encrusted schmutz?  Bah.