The almost-adventures of an Ordinary Household
I didn’t expect to walk into a war room
Chapter 1: The Day My Cutlery Came to Life
I didn’t expect to walk into a war room when I decided I needed a midnight snack while I was finishing my homework for the night. I didn’t sign up for war at all.
“Forks!” I heard a stern voice in the kitchen as I fumbled around at the door for the light switch. “Er…and spoons!”
Great, I thought, rolling my eyes. My brother is at it with the puns again. I flipped the switch on-
-and froze, staring at the table where all my forks (and spoons) were upright, and being addressed by my favorite butter knife. They all had eyes (wide open in astonishment) and mouths (also open in astonishment). I had no doubt my expression reflected the same.
My first (illogical) thought was “Henry, I’m going to kill you.”
But then, they started moving. And I screamed.
I opened my mouth wider, filled up my lungs, and let loose the screamiest scream I had ever screamed…..before remembering that it was just me in the house today. No wonder my cutlery had turned the kitchen into a war room.
I calmed down, and shut up, only to realize that I now had cutlery scurrying around like ants whose nest had been disturbed. As I watched, everything flipped quietly back into place and the kitchen went silent. I could almost believe I dreamed the whole thing.
Except…..there was a tiny war map in the middle of the kitchen table. I squinted. Then, I decided to get to the bottom of this.
It took me half an hour to convince the forks (and spoons) to come out of their drawers. Then fifteen more minutes to coax my favorite butter knife to talk.
“We’re in a war here,” he told me grumpily. “We didn’t expect you to be awake. You’re normally not.”
Which was true. Normally, I’d be in bed by ten. But wait…
“So you guys are really alive?” I asked, fascinated. “All the time?”
“No, we die every morning then wake up undead when the sun goes down” Knife responded. “Of course we’re alive, you silly human!”
I suddenly realized how awkward that made my interactions with my forks (and spoons). Knife probably had the better deal here. Shutting that train of thought down viciously, I turned to Knife again. “So…..what’s this war?”
I was immediately overwhelmed by literally everyone (everything?) chiming in at once. Amidst the babble, I made out that the garden tools, who were also apparently alive, had claimed to be the favorites, which had upset the kitchen folk, naturally. Several disputes later, they had collectively agreed that war was the most logical way to solve this problem, and carefully planned it….for today, when I was the only one home.
Whoops.
I learned that the garden folks, led by Trowel, were usually quite friendly, even if they considered the kitchen folk too polished and snobbish, and the kitchen folk considered them too rough and uncivilized.
“But we can’t let them insult us like that!” Knife interjected, at this point in the story. “Them, the favorites! Bah!”
I stifled the urge to laugh. Oh, dear.
“Will you help us?” one of the tiny dessert forks asked, in such a hopeful voice that I almost said yes. But I couldn’t let my cutlery go to war with the tools in the garden shed. How would I explain this to my parents?
“How about we call a truce and go talk to them?”
If a butter knife could stab a human, I would have died.
Fortunately, a butter knife couldn’t, so after a lot of dodging and a lot of yelling, I managed to finally get Knife calmed down enough to agree.
And that was how, at 3 am, I found myself in our garden shed, under a white handkerchief, talking to a butter knife and a trowel.
Trowel warmed up to me soon enough, and immediately introduced me to all the garden folks, including the statuesque spade and shovel, and the roguish rake. “How come you guys don’t have giant people?” I whispered to Knife. “Closest we have is the meat cleaver, and he’s tired today after your mom made that chicken stew in the evening,” he whispered back.
The garden folk, while also a bit wary, welcomed us warmly, and I watched as quite a few of them greeted and socialized with the kitchen folk who had come with us. Only Knife and Trowel maintained a stony silence, and it was those two to whom I started talking.
Trowel was more grounded (I groaned internally, thinking of my brother) than Knife. He (it sounded like a he anyway) was sensible, and while he and his garden folk were rather hurt, they were willing to resolve it peacefully. Knife was a different matter.
So I suggested a friendly debate.
Another half an hour of pointed words back and forth, I was starting to wish I left them for war instead.
“Okay, guys, look, you’re all favorites to us, okay!” I yelled, throwing my hands up and making everyone freeze in shock. “I love the kitchen folk, I love cooking and eating and spending time in the kitchen. It’s what I do. So does my mom”
“But,” I continued before Knife could open his smug mouth, “my dad and my sister love the garden. They love working on it. They pretty much live in this shed. I don’t think they could even live without you.” Now it was Trowel’s turn to look smug.
“What I’m trying to say is, all you guys are favorites. We all love you. Sometimes we might spend more time with one set than the other, but that doesn’t mean we love you any less. You guys help us every day, and we really appreciate and love you for it, okay?”
Trowel and Knife both nodded, slowly.
“I suppose,” Knife said, very reluctantly, “that we may have been too harsh when we tried to say only we were the favorites.”
“And I guess,” continued Trowel, “that we shouldn’t have made such a big deal. Friends?”
“Friends” Knife agreed.
And that was how my household didn’t go to war, the day my cutlery came to life.
