Poetry Corner: My Mother’s Fork

My Mother's Fork

It is more than 80 years old, my mother’s fork. Its tines, twisted this way and that, have oxidized to a mottled gray. There is a major dent on the bottom of the handle, which is rock-hard from years of Mother’s use. Four small decorative details, plus a peg, hold it all together.

Mother, though a bit frugal, was a superb cook. Simple fare it was. Generous cuts of meat, the freshest vegetables, right from her garden, and plenty of fruit made up the many meals Mother produced.

She had a neat, functional kitchen and she had no use for drawers filled with kitchen utensils. Her fork, however, was used often.

The fork was thrust into a rare roast to check for doneness. (Who needs a meat thermometer?)

The fork turned a browned chop. (Who needs tongs?)

The fork lifted a steaming potato. (Who needs a slotted spoon?)

I now have a meat thermometer, tongs and a slotted spoon, but mostly, I use my mother’s fork.

Martha Saul of Duluth

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