The Celebrated Short-Tine Fork Of One Hillmomba Kitchen

Funny how things disappear around a house. How things disappear, about the same time a child moves away to college. A child who denies taking any household items with him.

The #1 son is home this week. You'd think one more mouth to feed wouldn't make much difference in the housework scheme. But you'd be wrong. One more mouth to feed makes four times the dishes to wash. By hand, I might add, because perhaps I've been remiss in informing you that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has no dishwasher. Like the courtesy of Fred's two feet propel the Flintstonemobile around Bedrock, the courtesy of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's hands clean the dishes in the Mansion.

Last night I had to wash the dishes before I could make supper. That’s because, when left home alone, #1 fancies himself a five-star chef. A five-star chef without a dishwashing staff. It’s a good thing Goodwill doesn’t charge by the pound, because the bowl my five-star chef used to slurp his gourmet ramen noodles was quite hefty. I know it was his bowl, because that bowl was not from around here. All maroon and heavy ceramic, a singleton in an eight-place-setting world.

Let the record show that I called The Pony to the kitchen to pick up his food. I'm a short-temper cook, you know. The Pony was having Devil's Playground Buitoni Sweet Italian Sausage Tortelloni with Classico Four-Cheese Pasta Sauce, and four pieces of garlic bread made with Italian bread spread with Save A Lot Home Churned margarine mixed with minced garlic from a squeeze bottle. Yeah. I know. I can't avoid the name-dropping in this gourmet feast. The Pony trotted upstairs and grabbed his portion. Then I called for Farmer H, who was having the same main course, but with garlic cheese bread made by adding mozzarella, and also a bowl of broccoli with cherry tomatoes. Finally it was time for #1 to fetch his meal, the same as Farmer H's, with the substitution of salad for broccoli. Uh huh. It's quite exhausting to cook for these helpless people. Oh, and because the tortelloni didn't stretch that far, I was having leftover chicken livers with a salad.

However...at the moment of calling #1 to the kitchen, I was standing at the sink up to my elbows in soapy water and eating equipment.

"Hey!" #1 was outraged. "There's no small fork!"

"Well, we used to have eight of them, but ever since you went away to college, we only have four. The Pony is eating with one, and three are at the bottom of this sink, because they are dirty."

"I haven't even used a fork since I've been home!" Said the eater of two bowls of strawberry shortcake consumed two hours apart on Saturday evening. "I don't know why I get accused of taking the small forks."

"Because you and The Pony are the only ones to use the small forks. They disappeared right after you left for college. Like, the first time I washed dishes after you left for college. Dad doesn't use them. I'm the keeper of every kitchen tool under the sun. And I don't see any reason for The Pony to hoard them, because that would be like biting off his nose and then stabbing it with a fork and throwing away the fork, just to spite his face. Besides, you had ramen noodles, I see, while we were at school. I know you didn't eat them with your hands."

"I used my own fork! I have four!"

"Of course you do! I rest my case. The four short forks from our drawer."

"NO! It's MY fork. They're a quarter apiece at Goodwill. They are totally different from your short forks."

"Well, I'll find out when I get to the bottom of this sink. Here. I'll wash a short fork for you. Look. It's one of ours."

"You'll see."

Yeah. But I didn't. There was no unmatching silverware. Only that heavy bowl.

Somebody's been fibbin'.