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I am nothing if not determined.

A little bitchy, too, but I assumed it was obvious and didn't need to say it any more...

I've had this lifelong obsession with mastering things I am apparently not meant to master; skateboarding, pie-crust making, dancing the lead in Swan Lake and using chopstick in a way that is both graceful and productive.

After today I honestly think I've got a better shot of being fitted for a tutu (or a ten-ten) and hoisted by a man in bulgy tights than to eat an entire meal with chopsticks without swearing or throwing one of those little pieces of bamboo across the room. And I know I've talked about this all before, and have been given advice. And I know they make chopsticks with hinges now - but that's just not the same for me. I have a need to prove I am good enough.

And beyond my naturally klutzy ways, I have the hands of a person who can grip heavy pots and hold a freshly boiled potato for peeling without too much discomfort. Hands accustomed to hot bleach water, and delving into large prep tubs of ingredients to make enough filling for 300 stuffed tomatoes. Slightly larger than the average "dainty lady" hands that, while monthly manicured and thrice daily lotion-ed, are a good indicator of the work I do. I have my mother's hands, actually. A trait I am most proud of, but a trait we both laugh over when things like fastening a necklace clasp or threading needles will make us irate with frustration. And she can't handle chopsticks, either.

So today I had the wonderful opportunity - finally - to speak to My Dear Friend Lizzie. Or as most people know her: Damomma. It has been a while and we had much to catch up on. And just before the call came in my delivery of tofu yakisoba arrived at the door. I pushed it aside not wanting to be rude while we spoke, but the smells overcame me and I decided to give it a go. And yes - I unwrapped the chopsticks like the determined fool I am. And it all went really well. The Tofu was stabbable, and I managed to pick up a few of the larger vegetables without incident.

But then I got cocky and started picking up noodles like I was a pro. But it was a tricky maneuver - I had the phone in the crook of my neck and I didn't want to make rude slurping sounds, so I tried curling the noodles around the sticks. And it worked pretty well the first two times, and then the sticks kept shifting in my hands and I would have to re-set them and start over. I even tried the swing&flip move where I was able to grab a few noodles and give a flick of the wrist where the noodles would swing over the sticks enough to get them in my mouth.

And that all went really well until a few broke and I would up with a clump of noodles in my hair. I didn't say a word to DaMomma, but as fate would have it we lost our connection which gave me the time I needed to get the noodles out of my hair and resign myself to the fact that I needed to get myself a fork. Shortly after she called back and I had to confess what I was doing - which gave her a good laugh at my expense. We both did, actually.

But that's fine - one day I will master and overcome those damned chopsticks. But she - she will always be the mother of a beautiful and feisty second-born daughter. A fact that promises to be a lifelong running commentary of one funny story after another. Funny stories for me to giggle over at her expense. Second-born daughters are traditionally headstrong, feisty, independent, determined, rebellious and always full of challenges. And I know this because I, too, am a second-born daughter.

Be afraid my dear friend, be very afraid.

Posted by Foodwhore at June 21, 2007 01:03 PM

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