Knives and Forks

“Patty,” Mom yelled from the living room.  “Can you bring me a knife to cut my meat?”

I stopped dishing coleslaw onto my plate next to the baked fish filet before I peeked through the kitchen doorway into the living room.

“What do you need a knife for?” I asked.

“To cut this meat,” she explained, waving her fork over the small filet like a divining rod.

“Have you tried cutting it with just a fork first?”

“No, because I need a knife,” she replied.

“Mom, it’s a piece of fish, not a steak.  I think you can manage to cut it with a fork,” I argued.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, staring at the battered piece of cod with more than a note of skepticism. “My wrists just aren’t as strong as they used to be.”

“Then pick it up and eat it with your hands!” Bill yelled from the kitchen.  “We won’t mind.”

She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, probably asking God for patience when dealing with such idiot children, then down at the triangular shaped fish filet before she finally picked up her fork and deftly cut through the middle of it.  “Oh,” she exclaimed in surprise.  “I guess it wasn’t as tough as I thought it’d be.”

“Why on earth would you think fish would be tough?” I asked.

“Because I thought it was a pork chop,” she replied, happily placing a bite of cod into her mouth.



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