“Half-breed” they’re called, and far worse names. Not a true spoon, not a true fork, but some bastard hybrid from a 1950’s science fiction movie.
The only cutlery that’s always plastic. The only cutlery whose name isn’t also a verb. They are the sporks. A group so marginalized that my spelling checker suggests ‘sparks’.
They don’t have a place in the drawer, even though they replace two of the implements already there. They can lift soup to your mouth and they can hoist up a nice chunk of steak. It’s no wonder spoons and forks feel so threatened.
But perhaps you didn’t know this: Sporks are doing just fine, thankyouverymuch. They have their own culture, their own traditions, and they’re not pining for our acceptance. Recently I had the privilege of witnessing a Spork-out, a celebration of spork by sporks. While I agreed to not reveal the sacred rituals, I can relate a few impressions.
Presiding over all was the Elder Spork, coffee-stained and partially melted, bowing to confer his blessing on the gathered youth. How he laughed to the song, “whatcha gonna do with that one-inch tine, forky?”
The youth, so energetic and idealistic, chanting “we can do it all!”
The uproar when revolutionary Sporkicus suggested they adopt serrated edges and “bring down the knives.” What followed can only be called a riot.
There is more, so much more, but if I don’t want my heart to be slowly and inefficiently removed from my body I must stop now.