The Thursday I Stopped Picking Up the Fork: One Meal Eaten With Bare Hands
The Thursday I Stopped Picking Up the Fork: One Meal Eaten With Bare Hands
There is a small wooden table in my kitchen that belonged to my grandmother’s grandmother, and for many years I set it the same way every single evening. Plate in the middle, fork to the left, knife to the right, sometimes a spoon if the soup demanded it. The cloth napkin folded into a triangle because my mother folded it into a triangle and her mother before her did the same. I never questioned this. The fork was simply an extension of the hand, and the hand without the fork was somehow incomplete at the table. (more…)