Daily News Column for Dec. 23.
Colonel Butter and the war of knives
We had so much aluminum foil covering our kitchen counter, we could have
picked up HBO for free. But, instead, we used it to keep our holiday
treats from sticking together.
Somewhat of a tradition in my family is homemade Christmas treats
involving several pounds of powdered sugar, peanut butter and butter.
No, heart problems are not a family tradition.
Now living in Missouri, five hours away from my family in Iowa, the job
of assistant chef fell onto my male counterpart.
"Can you hand me a knife?" The Man asked, already covered head-to-toe
in melted chocolate.
Men.
Knowing that my kitchen contains several types of knives, all of which I
know how to use, I needed him to be more specific.
"What kind of knife?" I asked.
"A regular one," he said, still unhelpful.
Already frustrated with my assistant's inability to properly identify
kitchen utensils as my mother would so easily be able to do, I
continued.
"A butter knife or a steak knife?" I asked, holding up some options.
"The regular one, not a steak knife," he said with an eye roll and a
snort.
In my little world, there is no such thing as a regular knife, and his
sarcasm and slight display of disgust were just as irritating as his
lack of knife knowledge.
"Yeah, that's a butter knife," I said snorting back.
At this point, it was clear, the war was on. Now calling it a "table
knife" instead of a "regular knife," The Man was taking a new tactic.
Holding my ground, I continued to try and prove myself right — which,
of course, I was.
"I've called this a butter knife my entire life, and I've used it to
butter your toast and crescent rolls," I argued. "And I've never, in the
past five years, heard you call it a table knife."
Snort.
Realizing neither of us would back down, it was time to call in
reinforcements. After a quick flick of the laptop lid and some auto
focusing by way of webcam, my mother was now there to help, even though
she remained in Iowa.
Holding the knife just a foot from the computer screen, I took another
shot at the stubborn Southerner.
"Mom, what do you call this?" I asked already knowing the answer.
"A knife," she replied. Oh. Dear. God.
"Mom, what kind of knife?" I pried.
Before the words were even out of her mouth, the victory dance had
already commenced in our living room. Two against one. It was, in fact, a
butter knife, and so it was settled.
Not so fast.
The Man has a mom, too. Another Southerner. And so the war continued.
When her answer of "table knife" came from the depths of the worldwide
Web, it was clear this battle wouldn't be easy.
We decided to leave it up to our co-workers, only to be further
irritated with answers of "dinner knife" and "just a plain knife."
Call it a truce, if you will, but this girl is an Iowan, and we butter
our bread with butter knives.
*Take the Daily News' online poll and let Megan know what you call such a knife.*
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