The Kitchen Utensil's Christmas

The other day I found a spatula in the wrong drawer:

Chapter I - The Meeting:

May I have your attention please? Excuse me. Listen up everybody! Excuse me! Salad tongs, you can save your conversation for later. Thank you. Can everybody hear me? ~~~~~~~. Okay, good. Now I’ve opened up your drawers and called this meeting for a reason. Knife Block! This concerns you too, so listen up. ~~~~. Alright, thank you.

Utensils of Johnson House: It has come to my attention that many of you have allowed yourselves to become rather disorganized lately - a Spoon in the Fork Tray, a Whisk in Drawer Two… Stuff like that. So I think it’s time for a little coaching session on the basics. I know this stuff is old hat for most of us, but it’s a good chance for you veterans to help out the newbies. I also realize it’s the holiday season and things are a bit chaotic in the kitchen right now, but that’s just all the more reason for you guys to really focus on proper storage habits.

Now, if during this meeting you learn that you’re in the wrong storage area, don’t worry. There will be a break-out session after the meeting where you’ll have an opportunity to move to your assigned area. If you learn that you belong outside of the main complex however, please speak up and you will be excused immediately. Utensils who reside outside of general housing will be addressed separately at a later date.

~~~~~~~. ~~~~? Yes, Tea Strainer, you may be excused. Anybody else?

Okay then, I’ve placed a stack of hand-outs in each drawer. Please pass them around. Share if you need to. You guys in the Knife Block can see all the information on the chart up front here. Okay now, as the chart shows, our main utensil housing complex consists of this main column of drawers by the range, plus the Silverware Drawer over here and the Knife Block on top of the counter.

The top drawer of the main column, colloquially called “the Knife Drawer”, is properly called “Drawer One”, so naturally the next drawer down is called “Drawer Two”, and the one under that is referred to as “Drawer Three”. The Silverware Drawer back over… ~~~~~~~~? What? Drawer Four? Well Drawer Four is for Measuring Cups, Cookie Cutters, the Juicer, and some Pampered Chef things that frankly, I don’t understand. So I think we’re better off just calling those things… er I mean, those members of our kitchen community “Implements” rather than “Utensils”. They kind of have their own thing going on down there in Drawer Four, so they won’t be at our meeting today. Now where was I? Oh yeah… The Silverware Drawer. That's over here. Now these four drawers plus the Knife Block are your domain. It’s your community, so it’s up to you to keep it neat.

Okay next, umm.. this can be a touchy area, but it’s important. I want everyone here to know that all Utensils are created equal. However, groups of you do have different purposes and abilities, and those traits determine where you get assigned to live. Now when we’re all cooking together and serving up meals I want everyone to have fun and get along. Just because you sleep in different drawers doesn’t mean you can’t socialize in the common areas; like on the countertop, at the table, or in the dishwasher. Never forget though, there are some very strict rules of conduct that apply to all of you when you’re in the dishwasher. These were covered during your individual orientations, but if you’re unclear on any of the dishwasher guidelines please see me after the meeting. We don’t want any more incidents like what happened over Thanksgiving with Cork Screw and Turkey Baster. ~~~~~~. Yes, I know, it’s sad about Turkey Baster, but that’s why we have rules.

Now let’s discuss our drawer assignments. Drawer One is for storage of sharp edged Knives, including Kitchen Shears, the Steel, the sharp-edged Pastry Server, Apple Peeler, and Meat Fork. ~~~~~~? Oh yes, and flat Cheese Grater. That was a recent change, but I think it made sense, and I think we can all get used to it. ~~~~~~~~? Why is Meat Fork in Drawer One? Well because I never use him without a Knife, and I don’t see any sense in… ~~~~~~~~? Okay then, because I said so. That’s why! Now of course the exception to this arrangement is that the Knives of our Chicago Cutlery Regiment are housed in the Knife Block. ~~~~~~~! Sorry, life isn’t always fair Faberware. ~~~~~~~. Yeah, the Knife Block might seem like an elitist tradition, but it was a gift, so put on your big boy scabbard and deal with it. ~~~~$#@&~~!! That’s enough Faberware. [At this point let the record show that Faberware was removed from the meeting.] Okay, I think that covers Drawer One, so if there are no other questions I’ll move on to Drawer Two.

Drawer Two is home for all of you Serving Utensils who are not Silverware. Oh! I should have made that clarification about the Knives too. Silverware Knives, including Steak Knives and our funny little friend Butter Knife are to reside in the Silverware Drawer, and not in Drawer One. ~~~~~. Oops, sorry Butter Knife. Yes, I know that was insensitive. You’re just as important around here as Meat Cleaver. ~~~~~!! Put a sock in it Cleaver. It’s almost 2017. The world is changing. Hey! Let’s keep it quiet in the Knife Block. Now as I was saying, Drawer Two is for Serving Utensils, like Salad Tongs, Ice Cream Scoop, Big Spoon, Spaghetti Fork, Ladles - stuff like that. Basically, if your job is to transport food from point A. to point B. you are a Serving Utensil. Everybody got that? It’s pretty basic stuff.

Okay then, Drawer Three can be a little tricky, so please pay attention everyone. Drawer Three is where some of our hardest working and most skilled Utensils live - like Potato Masher, and Whisk, and the Spatula Team, and Meat Hammer, and Garlic Press, and Wooden Spoon and the whole Bamboo Stir Squad, and Turkey Baster, God rest his soul. ~~~~~? Yes, I’ll try to remember to pick up a new one tomorrow. Anyway, you guys know who you are. You’re the backbone of this whole operation. I know you don’t get shined and sharpened like some of the others, but you guys got moxie, and I like moxie. ~~~~? What? Pancake Flippers? Yeah, that was a tough call. I know Pancake Flippers flip, but they also serve. That’s why they got moved up to Drawer Two last year, and I think it’s working. Besides, Drawer Three was getting overcrowded, so that was a factor too. ~~~~~? Yes, we review these things annually. If you think you’ve been categorized unfairly there is an appeal process. ~~~~~. ~~~~~~? ~~~? Yes I have a form in my briefcase. See me after the meeting.

If there are no more questions about that we’ll move on to…. ~~~~~? No Potato Masher, you belong in Drawer Three. Drawer Two is for serving Utensils. We just covered this. ~~~~~. No, you don’t serve. ~~~~~~~. Yes, you “serve the common good” but you’re really overthinking this. You don’t serve food. You mash it. You’re a masher. Heck, The Monster Mash is your favorite song! Remember making pumpkin pie in October? We listened to that song like three times while you mashed pumpkin meat. ~~~~~! Yeah, that was fun. Mashing is fun, and you’re good at it. So be proud of your station. There’s no shame in being stored in Drawer Three.

Okay, well I think that covers the main column, and the Knife Block, so let’s quickly cover the Silverware Drawer. Now I know you guys get tired of hearing me brag about our Silverware Team, but everybody in the Silverware Drawer is a member of a tight knit squad. These guys are professionals. They all came home in the same box together. They sleep in organized little rows, and they all know their place at a dinner setting. They’re really the A-Team when it comes to organization. ~~~~~. I know Salad Fork, you guys don’t really need to be at this meeting, but this is a team building thing, so I think it’s important. Anyway, to all of you other Utensils - I hear the way you talk about Silverware sometimes, but you all need to realize that they work just as hard as you do. Maybe not physically, but the stress of precision and keeping your shine takes a toll on a Utensil. And remember, this Christmas when you guys are all laying around in the sink, or in the dishwasher after dinner is served, Silverware will be stuck sitting on the table listening to Uncle Frank prattle on until God knows when. So when you’re feeling down, don’t forget what I said earlier, we’re all equal… different, but equal.

In closing I just want to say that we all have a job to do, and we do it best when we’re organized. So let’s get organized and stay organized. Any questions? …Okay then, please pass your handouts up to the front of the drawer. Good meeting guys! Now before I shut your drawers, if any of you think you’re in the wrong place, do not attempt to climb into another drawer by yourself. Position yourself sideways in the drawer that you’re in and wait for assistance. I’ll be around to help you in a minute.

Chapter II - The Post Meeting Report:

As a result of the meeting four Utensils were found to be in the wrong place and were returned to their proper drawers.

After a successful appeal, Apple Corer was upgraded to Knife status and was moved from Drawer Three to Drawer One.

The Turkey Baster position has been filled. New Turkey Baster is fitting in well, and everyone is being careful not to talk about old Turkey Baster in front of him.

During a routine counseling session it was revealed that even though Potato Masher can mash like nobody’s business, the big oaf still dreams of being a server someday. We’re currently exploring his limited options.

Chapter III - Christmas Dinner:

Well Let me just say that I will never think of Big Spoon as a selfish Utensil again. Today at dinner she let Potato Masher serve the mashed potatoes. He did a horrible job, but he had fun. We all had fun. The Silverware reflected smiles from all around the table, and just like at the end of most Christmas stories, we all came to realize that we’re a community. All different, but all important.

[Fade out on Uncle Frank’s audio - Pan camera to dishwasher]

From My Kitchen to Yours,

Merry Christmas

R.L.J. 2016

Superman - The Later Years

Chapter One (Which begins with a very long sentence)

As a lethargic Lois Lane, now likely late for the luau, was laying languidly in the leaves of the landscape on Lower Lena Loop Lane behind the lanai of the library with a lacerated leg and a lost left loafer, but otherwise looking lovely (Despite being in her sixties now, Lois always looked lovely); Clark Kent was cavorting at a cautious cadence (as a man who was once very spry and adept at cavorting would tend to do after reaching the age of seventy) carrying a container of caramel creamers across the carpet of his cozy cabin in search of a cup of coffee last seen on the kitchen counter. Lamenting her lousy luck Lois labored to locate her lost loafer. Little did she know, it had landed on the lawn of the librarian Lill, just up the hill, where she took her spill.

The clock struck seven.

Chapter Two (Where Superman is called into action)

Clark, craving caffeine, was completely unaware of Lois’ location, or situation, and in his frustration he had forgotten all about the luau he was supposed to attend that evening. His memory was failing and his alliteration was slipping badly, but a couple recent rhymes seemed to buoy his spirits.

Suddenly Clark thought he heard a familiar cry coming from outside. Through the double doors and onto the deck he dashed deliberately, followed by a dubious dachshund dubbed Dagmar. The fresh air felt exhilarating, and even seemed to perk up his alliteration a bit. Dagmar remained dubious.

Clark’s cabin, on the crest of Cooper Canyon, was within earshot of Lower Lena Loop Lane which ran along the Cooper Canyon Creek directly below. He heard the cry again. Having dashed enough for one evening, Clark hurriedly dawdled back inside to the closet where he found his old cape and tights. “This is a job for Superman!” he announced to Dagmar.

The last phone booth in Cooper County had been removed several years ago, so Supe slipped into the bathroom and squeezed into the now iconic red and blue outfit. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror Clark noticed the outfit needed to be let out a little in the seat. He made a mental note to stop by the cleaners in the morning.

A few minutes later back on the deck Clark was trying to remember why he went out there. Then Superman thought he heard a familiar cry. To the railing he rushed, and with one hand cupped behind his ear he leaned out and listened. Hearing nothing but ear hair rustling in the wind, he leaned out a little farther.

Chapter Three: (The rescue)

Lois pulled Superman out of the hedge. “That was quite a fall you took,” she said, helping him to his feet.

“I flew,” he corrected her.

“Yes, maybe, but all the same it was quite a crash.”

“I’m a little out of practice,” Superman answered. Then as he brushed himself off he added, “I’m here to rescue you. Oh, and I saw a brown ladies loafer on my way down the hill. Is that yours?”

“Yes. Thank you it is,” she said, wiping the injured leg with her kerchief.

As they walked up the hill together Lois began explaining what had happened. “I was just stopping to pick up Lilith,” she said, “and I slipped on the wet grass and fell over the bank. Oh goodness, I’ve made us late! We were supposed to meet Clark at the luau.”

“Oh crap!” blurted Superman, “I mean…”

“Hello!” called Lilith, waving from her porch. “What happened?”

Chapter 4 (The Conclusion)

After assuring Lois that he’d explain the whole situation to Clark, Superman began the long trudge up the hill. “Don’t rush!” he called back, “and take care of that knee. That could get infected!”

“What was that all about?” asked Lilith, “and why is Clark wearing that ridiculous costume?”

“It’s a long story,” answered Lois.

   

The Kid

We never learned his name, but the Kid would be hard to forget.

I was ten when the Kid appeared. Summer break had just begun, and all the neighborhood boys my age were gathered at the corner of our block. The Kid coasted up on an old bicycle that instantly told us he didn’t belong in our gang, but he asked us anyway, “Can I jump?” I was standing astride my new metallic gold Schwinn Stingray. My buddy Matt was making a final adjustment to the ramp we had just set up a short distance down the sidewalk.

The Kid was taller than any of us, and skinny, but he didn't look much older than we were. None of us knew who he was, or where he came from, but that didn't stop him from riding right up and asking that question, “Can I jump?”

“On that bike?” I asked.

“Sure, why not?” he answered.

Matt walked back from the ramp. “It’s ready,” he said. The ramp consisted of a plywood board leaned up against an assortment of bricks and cinder blocks collected from a nearby alley.

All my friends and I rode Schwinn Stingray bicycles that summer, with banana seats and ape-hanger handlebars. We reveled in the thought that we rode the coolest bikes around. Except for Brad. Brad had a Huffy. We pretended not to notice, but we were all very aware that Brad had a Huffy. The Kid’s bike was different from all of ours though. It didn’t even try to look like a Stingray the way that Brad’s Huffy tried. It was a taller bike, like an adult would ride. “You can jump if you want to,” I said.

Jumping was the reason we were there. Every week we set up the makeshift ramp and took turns riding our bikes over it. We jumped high over imaginary obstacles to the dismay of elderly neighbors who peered at us through foggy windows in the fall, and over neatly trimmed hedges in the spring and summer. “Someday we’ll jump over a car,” Matt often declared.

“Two cars!” one of us would then add. This is what young boys did back in the daredevil days of Evel Knievel.

Without a word I pedaled toward the ramp to show the Kid how it was done. I quickly sped up to a pace that would launch me nearly two feet off the ground, and shoot me almost two yards down the sidewalk. An impressive jump by neighborhood standards.

Just before hitting the ramp I stood up on my pedals, and held tight to the handle grips. As I flew off the end of the plywood board I leaned forward just enough to keep the bike level with the ground, and braced for the landing. Then, as the imaginary crowd cheered, I slammed on the brake and did my signature half turn skid before circling back to the corner.

As I pedaled up to the gang I saw the Kid riding away. “Scared?” someone taunted.

“I wouldn’t jump that bike either,” yelled another voice.

The Kid rode across the street and up the hill to the next corner. Then he turned around and stopped. Even though the Kid was tall, his bike was too big for him. He stood there looking back at us with one foot on the ground, and his bike leaning way too far over to look comfortable. I didn’t really know what to make of him. But I do know if it hadn’t been for what he did next, that image of him up there on the hill would have faded from my memory long ago.

With a hard shove off the ground the Kid was suddenly back up on his bike, and peddling toward us. He accelerated faster and faster down the hill. As he neared the intersection his intent became clear. We scattered out of the way. Matt ran into the middle of the street and yelled, “No cars!” to let the Kid know that the coast was clear. With no curbs to watch out for in the neighborhood the Kid flew across the street and was now back on our block speeding toward the ramp.

“Oh no!” we must have all thought at the same time. Who would run to get his parents? We didn’t even know where he lived. I always hated running to adults for help. The last time I had to do it was when Kenny jumped into the telephone pole hole.

One Friday afternoon the phone company drilled a hole for a new telephone pole, and set an orange cone next to it to warn people away during the weekend. Well by Sunday Kenny just couldn’t resist any longer. He walked up to the edge of the hole and jumped in. Three of us witnessed the event. It looked like someone jumping into a swimming pool, except there wasn’t a splash when Kenny submerged himself into the earth. There was just a thump and grunt as he instantly disappeared up to his arm pits.

The next thing we heard was our own laughter followed by Kenny’s frantic screaming. “Get my mom!” he yelled. Not wanting to face Kenny’s mom, we pulled on his arms. We couldn’t budge him. “I can’t breathe,” he cried. Tears began streaming down his now bright red face. His house was four blocks away, so I ran and pounded on the nearest door for help. After I managed to spit out the details of Kenny’s situation to Mrs. Olsen, she went back inside and made the necessary phone calls. A policeman came. A fire truck came. Kenny’s mom came. Half the neighborhood came to watch them dig Kenny out of the hole. We called him Kenny the Cork for a long time after that.

The Kid was going way too fast. All of us knew it, but it was too late to stop him. He’ll swerve around the ramp I thought. He’d be crazy not to. But he stayed in the middle of the sidewalk peddling harder and harder as the ramp got closer. We should have all been screaming at him to stop, but we just stood there speechless. I heard his tires hit the ramp, and I saw the board flex and bounce up as the Kid went airborne.

When I was nine I met a bunch of boys who were rolling a big culvert pipe down our street. They said they were headed to the park to push it off the big hill. It sounded like a cool idea, so I tagged along. Then as we all stood at the top of the hill, someone came up with a second cool idea. I quickly said, “I’ll do it!”

I had just volunteered to pilot the tube on its maiden voyage. I crawled inside, like John Glenn climbing into Friendship 7, and yelled, “ready!” Soon after the launch my head slammed against the inside of the pipe as I bounced and rolled like a cat in a tumble dryer all the way to the bottom. When everything finally stopped spinning, I crawled out of the tube, and threw up in the grass.

The Kid’s ascent seemed to continue for a long time. Frozen with fear, we just stood there staring slack-jawed as he soared higher into the air. “Lean forward!” I willed, but he didn’t lean forward. In fact he was pulling back hard on the handlebars. The entire gang watched in horror. Evel Knievel’s infamous Caesars Palace jump replayed in my mind. “Someday we’ll jump over a car,” a voice inside my head whispered. “Two cars!” a second voice added.

The Kid would easily fly far enough to clear two cars on that day, but he was turning upside down now. He looked like he might even do a full back flip, but he had no landing ramp. Evel Knievel always had a landing ramp, but Evel never tried to do a back flip. If holding our collective breath could have helped the Kid complete the flip and land on his wheels, then he certainly would have landed on his wheels. He would have completed the greatest stunt a kid could have ever dreamed of pulling off. But nothing we did now could alter the chain of events that was about to occur.

When the Kid started falling back to earth he abandoned the bicycle. Still tumbling backwards, he twisted and turned, desperately searching for the ground below. If he caught a glimpse of the ramp, it must have seemed very far away.

Concrete awaited the Kid now, like tarmac awaiting a distressed airplane’s emergency landing. But instead of a qualified crew of firemen and medics, only a bunch of ten year old boys were standing by.

When our silence was finally broken by the crash, there was screaming, and yelling, and crying. I tried to run to the nearest adult for help, but the door flew open before I could even reach the porch. Mr. Harris bolted past me toward the Kid, with Mrs. Harris chasing behind. “Call an ambulance!” he yelled, and she ran back inside the house.

Mr. Harris tried to comfort the Kid as he lay in a heap in the middle of the sidewalk. Jenny brought a towel that Mr. Harris used to soak up blood from the Kid’s chest, and arms, and chin. Red stains on the Kid’s knees slowly grew as the sirens grew closer.

Some of the gang fled, but most of us remained in a wide semi-circle around the scene. The circle soon filled with onlookers from nearby homes, some muttering, “This was bound to happen eventually,” and others nodding in agreement. Matt and I sat on a lawn across the street and watched as they wrapped the Kid in gauze and loaded him into the ambulance. The crumpled bike remained where it landed until someone finally hauled it away the next morning. The ramp was dismantled and discarded. Our jumping days were over. We never saw the Kid again.