Lately I’ve been wondering how I managed just fine for so long without a fork. I mean, it was a really long time. Years. Living in the woods, a fork was unnecessary. Unless you’re a big spaghetti fan, I guess. I used a wooden spoon that I carved, or if I needed to pick things up more specifically, I’d carve a pair of chopsticks.
I carved several pairs of chopsticks when I was living in Montana. All of those went somewhere. No note, no postcard. Just. Gone.
But it’s cool. You know, nonattachment and all.
I have begun to consider that a utensil which has been embraced by a lot of people over a pretty long time might be worth a closer look.
I want one. Just one. Or perhaps two, so that if a friend should visit who happens to be, like current me, forkless, then I could happily fulfill that need, if indeed the condition of having a fork is a need.
Perhaps it’s peculiar in this era, but my tableware tells stories. I have spoons that I have carved that are a reflection of a place and time, each one unique. My usual knife I purchased from a friend at a Stone Age skills gathering maybe 20 years ago. I have a frying pan that I found in an abandoned cabin, roof collapsing in, way back in a wilderness in Montana. My eating bowl Is a gourd that I hollowed out, from a farm in Arizona. My coffee cup has a cover around it that I wove from rushes from Montana.
So, I’m open to a fork or two with a story, you know. But I don’t want to go out and buy one and it feels wrong to carve it myself.
Maybe some day someone will give me one, if they have too many forks. Or maybe I’ll find one stuck in the ground or lying somewhere on a road.
After all, the whole bed thing came out all right. Turns out, they are popular for a reason.