At a tender nine years of age, before January 12th, 2001, my gleaming exterior had yet to be used to its full potential. Taunted by my siblings for being such a late bloomer, I defended myself, blaming the Upstairs Folk for my underemployment. Despite my newness and sleek handle, I was always overlooked. Mother and father reassured me, urging patience and rest for my inauguration into the culinary world.
I longed to fit in with my brothers and sisters of the Drawer. They all had so many thrilling stories to tell. Life outside of the Drawer sounded fascinating to me. I had heard rumours of furry, four-legged creatures that roamed in unison with our owners. My brother once told me that if I listen close enough I might be able to hear these creatures in the dead of night. So, I listened and he was right. Some of my siblings told tales of the steaming, hot, bath they had received as compensation for their hard work. They claimed that there was no greater pleasure than taking a good long soak in the ‘silver box’. There were even siblings of mine who had travelled long distances and slept in foreign lands with the Upstairs Folk; some of whom never returned. I hoped and prayed that I wouldn’t become one of the Forkgotten when my time came to leave the Drawer.
One day, I too would live a fulfilling and useful life, just like my family. I’d be a luminary, the kind that puts Uncle Butter Mike’s epic skills to shame and gives Aunt Lala Forkette’s fork-twirling prowess a run for its money. These legends in the Drawer were revered for their bravery and the strength they brought to the cutlery game. In our world, the Upstairsians were the Andy to our Woody, the Perry the Platypus to our Phineas and Ferb.
It was 7:00 am and one of the Upstairs Folk had just returned from the gym—hangry as ever. I was sleeping peacefully in the Drawer, when she aggressively tore through the kitchen in a neurotic state. The cupboards flew open; sending a gust of wind across my face. I heard her frantically searching for the bread, but it was nowhere to be found. My brothers and sisters awoke and prepared to be put into action.
Alas, she discovered an empty bag full of crumbs. In a fit of rage, she screamed at one of the other Upstairs Folk. “WHY DID YOU PUT AN EMPTY BAG IN THE CUPBOARD? ” she screamed furiously. He responded with a burst of cynical laughter that sent her into a frenzy. She pried open the freezer, frantically, rummaging through the shelves. There were peas, bagels, her roommate’s 5-year-old frozen pizza, and a singular shrimp on a shelf—but no bread. Her anger was swelling and in raging defeat, she called for another Upstairsian to find the bread. The other woman descended the stairs in a tired state, and the angry Upstairsian stood there, arms crossed, eagerly waiting. To add insult to injury the woman sleepily, yet equally triumphantly, found the bread.
The Upstairsian was on the brink of her hanger and she silently got the tools necessary to conquer breakfast. With an exasperated sigh, she flung open the cupboard and snatched the toaster and peanut butter with all the gusto of a breakfast warrior. Next stop: the fridge for the elusive butter. In a fit of breakfast fury, she tramped across the kitchen to the counter, putting the first of her tools down. A low growl of frustration escaped her lips as she belatedly remembered the jam chilling in the fridge. After securing the jam, she triumphantly returned to the cupboard, this time for a plate—because even breakfast rebels know presentation is key. Finally, she wandered over to the Drawer.
Her hand wavered over my brothers and sisters. Each finger wiggled down and hovered above my family. I squeezed my eyes shut praying that I would be the chosen one. Clink-clank-clink-ting-tang-clink. My family was rustling in excitement as her hand grazed atop us. Suddenly, I began to fly. I was lifted from my bed and held in the very hands of the Upstairsian.
This was it. My glorious moment had finally arrived. Today was the day I’d fight the breakfast war—and win.
I had been training my whole life for this. Today I would no longer be the young and naive silver edge. I would finally have a tale of my own to tell my siblings. Today I would join their rank and become a Butter Knifer.
We made a long and thrilling trek to the toaster. She put the bread down and we waited. I heard the bread sizzle and burn inside and I felt a pang of remorse for the carbohydrate. Why did such an innocent slice of bread need to be put through so much pain? Originally, I thought my purpose was to help the Upstairsian. However, after watching the bread become a casualty of this woman’s breakfast war, I could not stand idly by. Even if it meant risking my cover as a lifeless utensil. It simply wasn’t in my DNA. After what felt like an eternity, the bread finally popped up in its new toasty form. As it arose from the smoky machine in crispy honour, I was finally able to commence my mission to help the toast die in peace. Uncle Butter Mike and Aunt Lala Forkette would be proud.
She carefully placed the toast on the plate. Then, she peeled back the lid of the Toast Lotion. My nerves had peaked. Without warning my time had come. The Upstairsian grabbed my silver handle and dipped me into the Toast Lotion. I was lowered towards the toast, and my dull serrated edge danced along the coarse surface. Every edge was coated generously with a layer of lotion, peanut butter and jam.
At last, the toast had been mended. It was absolute perfection. The bread thanked me and I watched the Upstairsian shove the toast into her mouth, barely chewing because she was so hungry. Her hunger had been satisfied, and the toast died a comfortable death. Victory tasted sweet.
She swiftly stowed away the tools and returned to place both the plate and me in the steaming silver box.
I enjoyed the very same bath my siblings had, and by the end of the day, I arrived back home in the Drawer. Not as a Butter Knifer, but as a legend.