Me + Chopsticks = Unstoppable Force
God damn, I love chopsticks.
Have you ever picked up a single, unshelled peanut with chopsticks? Like, plucked it up and deposited it in your mouth? After doing that once or thrice, I feel like I could lift a collapsed carnival off a trapped beaver family.
I’m pretty certain that chopsticks give me superpowers.
Maybe you too, but definitely me.
I even feel like I’m bragging a bit when I use chopsticks. “Well, I don’t want to make everyone else look bad here, but hey, we all have to eat. Right?”
It’s fuckin’ majestic. I’m graceful. With chopsticks, I can eat ANYTHING. My hand-eye coordination knows no bounds.
My chopsticks capabilities grew, were retaught then blossomed again over the years. When left on my own for dinner, Kid April cooked up Amy’s Cheddar Shells and consumed that meal one awkward bite at a time. I have no idea why—I felt compelled. Maybe because there was no other reason to eat with chopsticks in my family, and yet, we had chopsticks. That’s why I learned the Wrong Way—I taught myself.
California really kicked things off for me chopsticks-wise. Now I can dim sum chicken feet with the best of them.
Now do you see why I’m bragging? Because I’m really fucking good at chopsticks.
A co-worker once gave me a portable set of chopsticks for my birthday. I think he liked me. Also: what an insightful gift. I still have them and yes, use them.
I’m even a pro at observing and categorize my material preference.
Cheap wood—beware splinters in your noodle. High-quality wood—luuuuuxury. Plastic—well, this one depends on what’s moving into my mouth. If it’s long and unwieldy, then good lord, pack a napkin. But if it’s rice, this is where I show off. One grain of rice at a time. Or just give me a pile of rice over soaked with sauce. You know the kind. It’s a chopsticks disaster. Not for me.
I would totally beat you at chopsticks.
The first time I went on a proper date with my husband was also the first time I went to get Vietnamese. Ever. Even at 24. (Have I mentioned I’m from Florida. And you know what they say about people from Florida.)
On this particular date, I had no mother-loving clue what to do with myself. As any totally mature, wise-beyond-her-years mid-twenties woman would do, I mimicked him. This too involved chopsticks. And from there, I learned the right way to hold the chopsticks. Thank you, husband.
In the years since, I learned that while proficient, he doesn’t mind the chopsticks etiquette. He does what he wants! Rascal.
So I’m still learning what’s polite and what isn’t. Still observing and (dare I admit?) mimicking the ritual and habits I see around me.
Now I’m curious about you—how are you with chopsticks? Is a meal with chopsticks ectacy or do you request a spork? Am I alone in the high I get while operating my hands and two sticks?