All my life, whatever the occasion, whatever the food being served, I have preferred and reached for and made sure that I was using a “dinner fork” when eating. (That’s the long one.)
At table, in a chair with a tray, standing up in conversation, lying down Roman-like, hanging upside down rilly stoned to prove some stupid point that I can’t remember—always a dinner fork.
Salad, beef chicken fish pork, appetizers, pasta, shrimp cocktail (sacrilege!), pizza (double sacrilege!!), sashimi (triple sacrilege!!!)—always a dinner fork.
Hell, even when I deigned to eat my pizza with a fork—and Grommet only knows what the conditions were that required such an abominable act from me (I mean, if Grommet did not give us fingers to eat piazza, what DID he give us fingers for?)—it was always a dinner fork.
Long, lean, triple-tined—a man’s fork. Yes!
Well, lately, I dunno why, but a salad fork—short, seeming stubby, but still triple-tined—has been my fork of choice.
I don’t get it.
I am perplexed.
What does this mean?
It’s not the same as it ever was.
(Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was . . .)
Is this some rite of passage into old age-dom that nobody—not even Orthodox Jews, not even Russian Orthodoxes—will discuss with their yoot. (And a buck-three-eighty to you if you get the cultural allusion in that word!)
I need to know. I need to know. (‘Cause I don’t know how long I can hold on!)