Do you remember the very first time you were allowed to handle a knife?
I do. Vividly.
Up until this day, my food had always been cut up for me, sandwiches made by mum or dad.
Eating utensild being only a fork and a spoon, junior sized.
I'm not sure how the invitation came about, but one day when I was five, we were having lunch at someone else's home.
The boy in the family, having finished his bread and butter, picked up another slice of bread and his knife, his knife, (not junior sized either) then calmly and competently buttered his bread.
I was amazed. Stunned.
And so very, very, jealous!
I positively seethed with jealousy and injustice.
I was five already!
And here was this boy, younger than me, (by at least four months, possibly six...) using a knife!
By a boy!
A younger than me boy!
Well! I just couldn't sit by and let a small boy get the better of me!
I asked my mum if I might please have a knife as I'd like another piece of bread.
I could see her hesitate, but we were in "company" and my temper was legendary.
She handed me a knife, the bread and the butter dish.
I spread butter on my own slice of bread. And quite well too.
Boy was I proud!
I think mum was too....
From that day on, I made my own sandwiches and insisted on having a knife at dinner to cut up my own food.
Using Wednesdays Words
6 minutes ago