My grandma’s kitchen was one of my favorite places. On her wall she had a large plaster of Paris fork decoration. My grandma’s kitchen was a place where everyone gathered. There was always some kind of food cooking. The kitchen was the hub of the family. It was the nucleus of the atom. This is where prayers were said as a family. This is where dominos were played with neighbors on Saturday nights.

In my childhood family home all the women would work together to prepare meals. We did not communicate very well outside the kitchen but cooking was a passion for all of us. I was the youngest. My mother would give me busy work during this time. My job was to organize the silverware drawer. I am very compulsive and this was one of my favorite tasks. I was later told by my sister that as a child I had favorite silverware that I would eat with. Other family members were not allowed to use my utensils because I would break into a crying fit. (There is a visit to the spectrum.)

Being the family nucleus is what I want from my kitchen. We love to host exchange students and my kitchen is where the action happens. Cultures are shared through singing and cooking. We have had one student’s grandmother come over from Spain and make us a wonderful meal. I have shared eating grapes on New Year’s Eve. My kitchen is my safe haven.

I currently have a single mother living in our home. She loves cooking and baking. Her father owns a restaurant in a neighboring town. Sharing my kitchen with her has been hard. Her habits are different than mine.

Our grown son and her have become a couple. Our grandchild is due in May. The two adults, two babies and three dogs are planning on moving out within this month. That is enough said on that subject for now.

I have noticed that my silverware collection has dwindled down. The other day I cooked supper for Chuck and only had one metal fork and one flimsy little white plastic fork. Needless to say, my patience was wearing thin. In retaliation, I took those two forks and hid them in my sock drawer. If I couldn’t have forks neither could they. I was proud of my plan.

Sooooo later that day I was on the phone to my sister. We discussed family memories. I gave her an earful of all my current kitchen situation. This sister asked if I had communicated in a non-hateful manner that my forks were missing. She told me it was pretty stupid to put forks in a sock drawer. Well no…sooo I got my fork out of the sock drawer and asked the young lady if she knew where the forks are. We now have four forks in the silverware drawer.

Who would have thought that forks can make such an impact on family dynamics.? Do you readers have any good fork stories?

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