A Bad Tine For Mrs. HM

A most unfortunate discovery was made in the middle of Mrs. HM's supper. It was delicious, too. The supper, not the discovery.

We had beer-battered fish (nothing fancy, just the frozen kind), garlic mashed potatoes, and yeast rolls. Don't be thinking I'm a masher or a roller. They were storebought. As usual, I fed Farmer H and The Pony, and brought my plate down to my lair. I was mid-feast, enjoying my own homemade tartar sauce on the fish planks, then dabbing a little I Can't Believe It's Not Butter (surely you didn't think I was a churner) on my roll, then having a bite of mashed potatoes.

I don't have any qualms about eating foods in a specific order. I don't care if they mix together on my plate. I don't eat all of one thing before starting another. Pretty much anything goes when Mrs. HM bellies up to the trough.

The yeast rolls were square. I used a fork to poke holes in one side, another side, and another. Then I pulled the two halves apart. I am not an animal! I don't eat a whole roll at once. The tartar sauce was in a ramekin, and I slathered a bit on the end of the fish plank, rather than dipping. My tartar sauce is chock full of diced pickle and onion, no need having the flaky fish fall apart trying to hoist a load of sauce.

Anyhoo... you may recall that I love my plastic forks. The SMOOTH kind, not the ones with ridges and pointy tines like some fast food establishments give out. I even wash my smooth white plastic forks for re-use. No need to fill up the environment with Mrs. HM's discarded eating implements.

I had one fork I used for putting butter on my roll, which also doubled as the mashed-potato-eating fork. The other was reserved for the tartar sauce. In fact, I stuck it in the ramekin between uses. My homemade tartar sauce is thick enough to hold a plastic fork upright indefinitely.

Anyhoo... I was taking my sweet time, enjoying my meal, intermittently checking up on my assorted conspiracy theories by videos on New Delly. The only place I might have been enjoying myself more would be the casino. Then in one instant, I was blasted out of my Pollyanna-ish, Shangri-La existence like a tourist on the Branson, Missouri strip trying that reverse bungee-jump contraption that shoots you skyward on a giant rubber band.

DUN DUN DUNNNNN! (had to borrow The Pony's DOOM musical cue)

I picked up my fork out of the soft (I Couldn't Believe It Wasn't) butter (also in a ramekin), and saw a BROKEN TINE!

Sweet Gummi Mary! Where was my tine? That fork was perfectly good when I brought it down on my tray! I'd been using it without incident! WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN?

The only thing I could imagine happening was when I stabbed my second yeast roll. It was a little hard around the edge. I like them that way. But it took a couple tries to get the fork in one side. I suppose that either broke off the tine, or weakened it. But WHERE WAS THAT HALF-TINE?

I searched my plate. My tray. The counter around the tray. The cracks between the letters on New Delly's keyboard. Under the keyboard. The top of the tartar sauce ramekin. The mashed potatoes. The butter. My lap. The stomach that hangs over my lap. My shirt pocket. The wrinkles in my shirt. Down inside my shirt on the ledge of my foundation garment. The floor. The tops of my shoes.

THERE WAS NO BROKEN TINE PIECE ANYWHERE!

Surely I would have noticed if the tine broke off in my mouth. Or if I scooped it up in a bite of mashed potatoes. Or bit off a bite of yeast roll with it laying atop. Or embedded in the texture. I would have seen it in the butter I spread on the roll.

Do you think I ATE it? The Pony chortled like he thought so. Then said,

"Enough! I don't want to hear anything else about it. Especially if it turns up later!"

If I expire without evidence of Farmer H trying to kill me, I guess this means Even Steven inserted a little bit of fork in me, to tell me that I'm done...