Fork You.

When I was twelve or thirteen, my best friend was invited to a nice restaurant by another friend’s grandmother.  I was asked to join them, which was, apparently, a very big deal to my parents, as this particular woman was one of wealth and stature in the community.  Not our community, because we lived back with the lowly peasants on the mainland, but she was an aristocrat  within her realm and they felt it was an opportunity I mustn’t miss.

I wore a dress my mother sewed by hand, and the only other thing I can recall is that it was mostly yellow with some sort of floral pattern.  And it had a little jacket, too, I think.  At that time, all of my dress clothes were sewn, not purchased.  A few of my casual clothes (skirts, blouses) were sewn as well.  This was a never-ending source of delight to the children I attended school with, as their clothes were embroidered with horse heads and alligators and names on back pockets.

And so, I toddle off to the engagement, well scrubbed and well starched, with an admonition to mind my manners.  The evening passed without incident, and I climbed aboard my pumpkin and went home.

It was a week or so later when my friend confessed to me that her mother had been told, “Neither of the girls knew how to properly use a fork.”  At the time, I was chagrined by these alleged tine travesties and not at all comforted by my friend having been cited with fork faux pas as well.  But more than anything, I was shocked to learn the woman had actually spoken about it.

I could see, I suppose, the mentioning of it in an effort to correct egregious offenses in etiquette, but I had not, to my recollection, chewed with my mouth open or talked with it full.  I kept my napkin in my lap and started with the outside fork and worked inward, and at no time did I use my utensils for “shoveling.” I spoke only when spoken to, and I maintained good posture.  I could not discern at what point I’d gone rogue with my silverware.

Several years later, I was dating someone who, in retrospect, was an obvious homosexual gifted at putting on airs, but that’s neither here nor there.  This person felt it was necessary to comment on my flatware technique on two consecutive outings, prompting me to think of other functions for my knife and fork.

Really, I’m not a barbarian.  I have appropriate table manners.  Why these two people took it upon themselves to correct me I cannot fathom. I feel it shows far less tact to comment on one’s mealtime shortcomings than to gracefully ignore them.  I mean, beyond puking, farting, snorting, or eating with your hands, most table actions are forgivable.

Perhaps with a little practice, one day, I’ll be properly presentable to the duchess at the ball.  After that, who knows?  Maybe I’ll find a job as a lady’s maid or in a flower shop.

Wouldn’t that be loverly?