Chop-Chop!

What’s on my mind? Himself celebrated a big birthday this week. I wanted to make the day ”special” - not the easiest thing to do during a pandemic. Our supermarket (the only one in our island village-that-calls-itself-a-town) delivered a birthday cake to the door. I told Himself to close his eyes and turn away while I parked the cake in the second fridge. 

With no idea what I was doing, he probably assumed I was stuck, trying to squeeze into an old bathing suit and didn’t want him to see. He didn’t guess there was a cake. 

(Wait for it. I’ve yet to reach the point.)

”Whad-do-I-do-whad-do-I-do-whad-do-I-do-o-o?” for a birthday during COVID.

By 11:30 that morning, I was desperate - no gift, nothing planned other than to smear Himself’s supermarket birthday cake a-w-w-w-ll over my b-a-w-d-y so he can lick it off. 

IN HIS DREAMS.

 

By 11:45, I had a brain wave: Ring our local sushi restaurant, order take-out, and have a picnic at the beach. 

YESSSSS!

(Have patience. I still haven’t got to the point.)

Parts 1 and 2 of my plan went smoothly as he waited in the car. Part 3 was a bit of a problem thanks to a hurricane at the beach. We ate our sushi in the car as suicidal masochists flew by, freezing off their patooties. 

Oh happy day! On opening what felt like a very heavy bag of sushi, I saw that someone else’s order had been packed with ours. Staring at it a few seconds, I thought: “Oh, well!” Even though we hadn’t paid for this largesse, there was zero chance the restaurant would take it back, so we stuffed it into our mouths.  

Being the uncoordinated type, I have no idea how to use chopsticks, and never will. Himself ripped the paper from his chopsticks but - on seeing the feast before us - reverted to a more efficient method, clawing at it with his fingers.

“MIFF ITH QUIDE A BIRFFDAY THURPITHE!” he said, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. “YETH!” I said, taking credit for his assumption that I’d blown 50 bucks on his birthday when I’d coughed up only $17.50.

So here’s the point. Sure, Himself had wasted his chopsticks, ripping past the paper to go ‘Here a poke, there a poke, everywhere a poke-poke’ before his fingers let ’er rip. 

My chopsticks had never been used. My chopsticks never are. Carrying them home like a trophy, I deposited them in the kitchen drawer, beside a dozen or so never-used pairs.

Ever the efficient planner, I know exactly what I’m going to do with those chopsticks. I’m going to wait until I have 20 - maybe 24 - pairs in the drawer. And then I will remove them - lovingly, carefully - ensuring each pristine pair remains in its paper. And then I will carry them from the drawer, thinking of the many chop-sticked meals for which I’ve used a fork. And then I will chuck them into the trash.

© Nicole Parton, 2021