This afternoon, as I set the table for lunch I noticed that all our large plates were dirty. Being too lazy to hand wash them, I put out a bowl for the pasta, a smaller bowl for the salad, and small plates for the bread. Chuckling to myself about all the crockery, I flippantly apologized to Cody and Carter for the singular fork with which to eat our meal – not a salad fork in sight.
On point, and in the overly dramatic fashion in which our family rolls, Cody quickly thrust his hands up to his neck and loudly gasped. Carter immediately followed suit. Not to be left out, I gasped as I flourished our multi-purpose forks.
“Who do you think your mother is?” I asked, “The Queen of England?”
Carter finished his pasta and for some unknown reason cleared his spot before coming back to eat his salad. Realizing he already put his fork in the sink, he got another.
“Oh, getting yourself a salad fork?” I asked.
This caused Cody to get up and correct my fork folly.
Husband and I laughed and wondered aloud if this was indeed a win in the parenting department of table manners. But then we watched Carter walk back into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of underwear.
Our longest standing rule in the realm of table manners is that one must, in the very least, have on a pair of underwear to join us at the table.
Perhaps we have not yet quite mastered the art of fine dining.