The Meat Fork

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“David, I want you to set the table tonight,” Mom said as I came through the door.

My shoulders slumped. I had just finished my chores at the barn. The table setting was women’s work in my mind.

“Where is Linda?” I asked.

“She will be late tonight,” Mom said. “Now you go change your clothes and clean up. Then, get the table set. Your father will want dinner when he gets in from the barn.”

There was no sense in arguing. I was stuck with the chore. I raced upstairs and changed out of my work clothes. Then I bounded down the stairs with a leap down the last four stairs as I tried to touch the closet floorboards over the stairs. One day, I would reach them. Gary thinks he is so big just because he can touch those boards.

“Should I set a place for Linda?” I asked Mom as I pulled the plates out of the cupboard.

“Yes, she could be home anytime,” Mom said. “Now get busy. I see your father and brothers leaving the barn now.”

I quickly set the plates around the table. Then, I grabbed the silverware and put a knife, fork, and spoon at each table setting. I grabbed a napkin and put it on each plate.

“David, that is not how we set the table in this house,” Mom said.

“I know, but everyone is going to pick up the napkin first,” I said. “Why does it need to go under the silverware?”

Mom just frowned. I quickly arranged things to her liking.

“Here is the platter of roast beef,” Mom said. “You get it on the table and then return for the potatoes and gravy.”

Finally, everything was on the table. Dad and my brothers were all washed up, and we sat down.

Dad picked up the meat platter.

“Where’s the meat fork?” Dad asked.

“David, you know we need a meat fork on the platter,” Mom said as I was halfway to the kitchen to grab a fork.

“We could just use our forks,” I said as I placed the meat fork on the platter.

“It’s just easier to use a meat fork,” Dad said.

Dinner was almost over before Linda got home. Then, we all had to sit and listen to her story about singing lessons.

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“Where’s the meat fork?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?” Sandy replied.

“The meat fork,” I said. “There should be a fork on the meat tray.”

“Just use your fork,” Sandy said. “We never had a fork on the meat tray when I was growing up. If we did, it would never make it around the table.”

We hadn’t been married a week, and now I find out she doesn’t want a meat fork.

“There should always be a fork on the meat tray,” I said. “It just makes things easier.”

“Well then, you can just jump up and go get your meat fork,” Sandy said in a bit of a huff.

I jumped up, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and returned to the table. I gently placed it on the meat tray.

“And you can wash the damn thing,” Sandy said.

I did not reply. And I did make it a point to wash the meat fork before anything else was in the sink that evening.

A meat fork was on the meat tray at dinner the following evening. Sandy never mentioned the meat fork again. And the marriage survived.

Photo by Andrea Mosti on Pexels.