Forksgiving

This Thanksgiving, I reflected on all the things I was thankful for.

Family, food, shelter…

Also… forks!

You heard me right.

Forks.

You see, for many years now, we’ve struggled to keep forks in the house.

A roof over our head?

No problem.

But forks in the utensil drawer?

Problem.

One day, I had like 30 forks.

The next day, I had like 5.

WTF?!

(Where the Fork?)

I checked other drawers, the dishwasher, the trash can.

“WHO TOOK ALL MY FORKS?!”

Is it the same person who’s stealing my reading glasses? (Don’t even get me started on that!)

It was a mystery.

During Covid was when the forks began to vanish, and since my kids, Quincey, Colby, and Parker, were all living here at the time, they were all suspects.

“Do you guys know where the forks are?” I’d ask those three rascals.

“Mom, shhh, we’re watching Tiger King,” Parker would answer.

Even after they all moved out, forks continued to disappear at an alarming rate.

Every once in a while, Quincey would show up at our house to return a runaway (abducted) fork. “Sorry, Mom, I accidentally took this one home the other day.”

If she “accidentally” took that one home, how many others are “accidentally” living in her new house?

So obviously, I did what any sane person would do.

I went to her house and conducted a thorough investigation.

Hey, Fork, hey, little Forky-Fork… 

I went room to room.

“WE DON’T HAVE YOUR FORKS!” Quincey hollered.

I crawled out from under Holland’s crib.

Now, you’re probably thinking, Hey, Ding Dong, why don’t you just buy more?

That was the plan.

Especially after last year’s Thanksgiving fiasco when there weren’t enough forks to go around.

Correction: enough GOOD forks.

“Why is my fork so small?” our daughter Parker said, holding up a cocktail fork.

“You got the teeny, tiny fork,” I said. “It forces you to take teeny, tiny bites and you don’t eat as fast. You’re welcome.”

“Why is my fork so big?” Colby asked, holding up a utensil roughly the size of a pitchfork.

“Wow, you can fit your entire meal and dessert on that fork! Lucky!”

My husband examined his jagged fork, also known as Garbage Disposal Fork.

“Eat carefully,” I whispered.

The next day I went on Amazon.

I sang myself a catchy tune to help me stay on track, Forks, forks, forks, I definitely need forks.

But do you know what else I needed?

Purely Elizabeth Pumpkin Spice Granola.

Click.

This happened quite a few times because, well, buying forks is boring.

You know what’s not boring? 

A ducky for my granddaughter, Holland. When you unzipper the butt, five little ducklings appear.

Click.

But wait, didn’t I need something else?

I shrugged.

It probably wasn’t important.

This past September, I smartened up

Realizing I was incapable of purchasing my own forks, I decided to delegate.

“Forks,” I told my friends when they asked what I wanted for my birthday.

“Forks?” Julie asked.

“Forks,” I confirmed.

 And that’s what I got.

A big box of shiny forks.

Which is why Thanksgiving was such a hit this year.

No more B.Y.O.F. 

Or, Just eat your turkey with your spoon.

And our guests didn’t get just one fork. 

They were presented with a whole army of forks.

“That’s your turkey fork, and that’s your mashed potato fork, and here’s your stuffing fork.”

When it came time to cut the apple and pumpkin pies, each guest was awarded with yet ANOTHER fork.

My fork runneth over!

A few minutes later, Quincey walked out of the kitchen holding a pie in each hand. “Mom, why don’t you have any spatulas?”

I sighed.

Next year.

I’m definitely buying spatulas.