The cutlery, made of the finest silver, gleamed in it’s case, making Bethany swallow. Her fingers itched where she’d buried them in her pockets, eager to grab hold of the shining pieces and stuff them into her duffel; it would be SO easy…
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” a voice said from behind her, making her start.
what the fuck is cutlery? she asked
maybe cutlery was everything she was hoping to achieve and still couldn’t because life moves way too fast for looking up words or proper forms of self discovery in a dictionary
we’re as lost and meaningless as cutlery
When I think of cutlery, I think of the symphony of cuisine. The sharp, elegant movements of glittering silver cutting across delectable food. It was the master of the plate, the presented leader with the jurisdiction to separate and conquer. Cutlery is the power, the source, and the being.
The steely knife… it doesn’t ask for approval, because it has no choice. It does what it was made to do and unlike people it doesn’t deny itself. Slow-mo… it cuts deep, and we see red drip slowly from the knife. I take my fork, dip it in sugar and eat the delicious tomato, because I like sugar with my tomatoes. What?
I was busying myself with the cutlery. I was waiting. I was thinking when or how would I meet you. And then you came. You came with a smile so bright that it lightened my day. I thought i wouldn’t find you but there you were. It was you all along.
The silvery cutlery gleamed in the light from the setting sun, making the sparkling place settings look glitzy and prepared for the next afternoon’s event. But right now, every table was empty but for the anticipatory forks and napkins folded into graceful swans.
The quick brown cutlery jumped over the dish by the moon and flipped out. We saw it do it’s prancy stuff and decided.
What would you like to do with the cutlery this time around and the plates the table.
I can’t believe that it’s come to this. I lower my eyes as the men take away all of my possessions–my wedding presents, that cutlery my mom bought, my favorite lamp… I look down at my daughter. She’s crying. “It’ll be okay.” I say. She doesn’t believe me.
He fumbled with the cutlery, then looked up with wide, panicked eyes, to see if anyone had noticed his blunder.
We all pretended not to notice, going so far as to talk about how loud the air-conditioner rattled from its place in the apartment window. It was pointless, meaningless and yet, we protected his fragile self out of habit.
For we were family and sometimes, that meant doing this even when you didn’t understand why it had to be you.
I turned from my husband, nervously setting my glass of wine in the sink. He was getting too close for comfort, his hand lingering near the cutlery. I swallowed thickly, fearing for what would happen next.
Knives and forks and spoons and ladles and eating and food! They dance like in Beauty and the Beast, they get sold in op shops, they are eaten from so many times and are in so many mouths – are they ever really sterile? Germs in restaurants all over the silver! You can’t see them but they are breeding on my tongue!
It’s the best brand of cutlery but you’ll never find it in a department store.
He’s sharper than Ares’s spear, strikes your heart deeper than
Artemis’s arrow and
leaves you in the middle of the night.
It sat on the counter. In the wrong spot. Why would she move it there? I can’t even get any of the bigger knives out. They hit on the cupboard above. I have to pull the whole block out in order to access it! She bought those for me you know. Ungrateful. I should remember. She thought of me when she looked at those on the shelves of…of where? I don’t know where they are from.
What? Speaking nonsense at this time of night, with the bugs scratching at the darkened air and drunkards slithering over the streets, you ask me about cutlery!? You must be mad! Breath in the air, go to sleep.
Cutlery is what I use for eating. I use a knife to cut my food. I use a fork to put foto butter my toastod into my mouth. I use a bread knife to cut the bread.I use a spoon to eat mt cereal in the morning.i use a butter knife to spread the butter on my toast.
He took the blade of his knife and placed it against her throat. His other hand clutched the hair at the top of her skull. He screamed warnings and threats. She could only silently comply in hopes her attacker would not take her life.
hands like scissors and fingers like knives he runs his hands across your body gently claiming he wants to make love so why’s it leave scars and why do you remember it like injury no one loves like this no one loves with so much intent to hurt
The clutter of cutlery, each piece melted and molded into a certain shape but after time becomes damaged. The tines of a fork twist every which way. The spoon’s neck is bent back too far. The knife has lost its poignance. Each utensil, regardless of its current condition, still serves a purpose. It is still part of the cutlery.
She gave back the plastic cutlery and asked the shopkeeper for chopsticks instead. She would have to wait a few days for the money to come from her sister, but she could not go home, or anywhere familiar, in the meantime. That meant eating “Obento”s and fast food for the foreseeable future. But her diet was the least of her worries. There were people looking for her, wanting to kill her. Then she remembered; they wanted to kill someone else too, and only she knew about it. Should she do something? What could she do?
They didn’t have a regular white door like everyone else. Instead, the Shims had big, heavy, dark wooden double-doors with ornate geometric windows carved into them. There was a shining expanse of polished wood floors in the antechamber and lacy curtains making the light coming through the windows shimmer opulently.
I see the new plastic vegetable cutting board, sitting there, waiting for me to open it from its plastic protection–I peel off the dollar tree packaging, then lay out the plastic cutting board, where I neatly slit square pieces of my cucumbers, onions, tomatoes. Balance is not a simple feat when your kitchen is being revived from three years of your messy and sloppy brother’s hungry stains. With oomph, I continue to prepare the tuna pasta!
She held her paintbrush to her face. Her lipstick to those lush beautiful patches of heaven. Along with all of her utensils and beauty cutlery… she was hiding herself.
the keen end of my words slice the house standing in the way of my endeavors,
I dice, especially when I hear the scorn of your doubt,
this is where I tout, through the imperfections of my flaws,
because music is the easing winds of my earth,
the same way your ears must heed to my requests,
no one can ban me from pursuing my march to endorse her innocent face,
he fragile mind that repeats my staring when I am not around,
when I am not about, she is my seed, she is what I breed into the world,
whereof she slaps the bib against her car seat,
I pound my words down their throats until they bow to me as their new employee,
a cutlery of words is what I use to choose my battles,
stepping forward with blades, knives, even daggers,
bring objections to my adherence, believe they will be chopped like a salmon by a long-standing fisherman!
I eat rice with a spoon.
Apparently that makes me greedy.
It’s true.
I don’t like sharing food.
I don’t like sharing most things.
I want to share myself.
I want to share my thoughts and my feelings but
The man sat waiting in the fine diner, checking his watch every five seconds or so. The fancy table included 7 different choices and his hands were burning
She never learned to sharpen her knives. As they dull, she simply purchases more. Drawers upon drawers of cleavers, bread knives, carvers, kullenschiff edges, parers, boning and santoku and utility knives. She feels safe at night.
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS WORD MEANS. NO MATTER HOW MUCH I TRY TO THINK OF IT, I CANNOT BRING UP A DEFINITION MENTALLY ABOUT A CUTLERY. IT KIND OF SOUNDS LIKE AN ACTUAL CUTLET LIKE A PORK OR VEAL CUTLET, BUT I ALSO THINK IT SOUNDS LIKE THE NAME OF A PLACE WHERE VARIOUS MEATS ARE CUT.
learning how to use this effectively takes much more effort than the eyes show you. all of the fine technique used for different types of cuts with different meats, produce and greens would impress anyone really. actually, just go ahead and thank the chef(s) in your family.
Pushing aside the fancy plates and cutlery, all gleaming gold under the light of the gaudy chandelier, I found a modest placard sporting my misshapen name, reminding me that I would be sitting in between Mister Wordschmidt and Missus Gallant from upstairs. I was beginning to rethink coming to this dinner party in the first place when I saw Missus Gallant’s gorgeous daughter sidle toward the table, her right hand holding up her long purple skirt.
She picked up the cutlery and stared at her plate. The food was swimming in grease, and looked disgusting. Pieces of meat oozing fat and limp vegetables. She put the cutlery down and pushed her plate away.
Good cutlery can define your ability to create something delicious and pleasing to look at. The right tools can give you the right results and the best product. How can a painter paint with an incorrect or bad brush?
I forgot my fork again. No way I can eat this lunch with my hands…….will have to borrow from the staff pool of cutlery. Hoping I remember to wash and put back. I have a collection at home already.
I should have spent more time in the kitchen. Anytime I see a friend or acquaintance deftly handle cutlery and cookware I feel as if I would just as soon slice my finger off at the tip than try slicing an onion on my own.
The cutlery, made of the finest silver, gleamed in it’s case, making Bethany swallow. Her fingers itched where she’d buried them in her pockets, eager to grab hold of the shining pieces and stuff them into her duffel; it would be SO easy…
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” a voice said from behind her, making her start.
what the fuck is cutlery? she asked
maybe cutlery was everything she was hoping to achieve and still couldn’t because life moves way too fast for looking up words or proper forms of self discovery in a dictionary
we’re as lost and meaningless as cutlery
When I think of cutlery, I think of the symphony of cuisine. The sharp, elegant movements of glittering silver cutting across delectable food. It was the master of the plate, the presented leader with the jurisdiction to separate and conquer. Cutlery is the power, the source, and the being.
My fingers trace slowly over your silverware,
remembering edges so sharp
they’d cut your eyes out.
Do you want to hear it all?
or do you want to bear the cutlery?
The steely knife… it doesn’t ask for approval, because it has no choice. It does what it was made to do and unlike people it doesn’t deny itself. Slow-mo… it cuts deep, and we see red drip slowly from the knife. I take my fork, dip it in sugar and eat the delicious tomato, because I like sugar with my tomatoes. What?
I was busying myself with the cutlery. I was waiting. I was thinking when or how would I meet you. And then you came. You came with a smile so bright that it lightened my day. I thought i wouldn’t find you but there you were. It was you all along.
The silvery cutlery gleamed in the light from the setting sun, making the sparkling place settings look glitzy and prepared for the next afternoon’s event. But right now, every table was empty but for the anticipatory forks and napkins folded into graceful swans.
The quick brown cutlery jumped over the dish by the moon and flipped out. We saw it do it’s prancy stuff and decided.
What would you like to do with the cutlery this time around and the plates the table.
Slice, slice, slice.
The cutlery whizzes through veggie after veggie, almost therapeutic.
Dice, dice, dice.
More than a job, more than my work.
Mince, stir, sizzle.
It was a lifestyle, my world. Cooking. The best profession, the perfect one for me.
I can’t believe that it’s come to this. I lower my eyes as the men take away all of my possessions–my wedding presents, that cutlery my mom bought, my favorite lamp… I look down at my daughter. She’s crying. “It’ll be okay.” I say. She doesn’t believe me.
He fumbled with the cutlery, then looked up with wide, panicked eyes, to see if anyone had noticed his blunder.
We all pretended not to notice, going so far as to talk about how loud the air-conditioner rattled from its place in the apartment window. It was pointless, meaningless and yet, we protected his fragile self out of habit.
For we were family and sometimes, that meant doing this even when you didn’t understand why it had to be you.
I turned from my husband, nervously setting my glass of wine in the sink. He was getting too close for comfort, his hand lingering near the cutlery. I swallowed thickly, fearing for what would happen next.
“Hon, please, don’t.”
He laughed darkly.
it’s just so formal. i can’t think of another word for it, but it’s too damn formal.
Really? The knife
was just a word like a work of penmanship
but cutting all the more sharply.
I want to see you cry.
Knives and forks and spoons and ladles and eating and food! They dance like in Beauty and the Beast, they get sold in op shops, they are eaten from so many times and are in so many mouths – are they ever really sterile? Germs in restaurants all over the silver! You can’t see them but they are breeding on my tongue!
It’s the best brand of cutlery but you’ll never find it in a department store.
He’s sharper than Ares’s spear, strikes your heart deeper than
Artemis’s arrow and
leaves you in the middle of the night.
It sat on the counter. In the wrong spot. Why would she move it there? I can’t even get any of the bigger knives out. They hit on the cupboard above. I have to pull the whole block out in order to access it! She bought those for me you know. Ungrateful. I should remember. She thought of me when she looked at those on the shelves of…of where? I don’t know where they are from.
dsfjl
What? Speaking nonsense at this time of night, with the bugs scratching at the darkened air and drunkards slithering over the streets, you ask me about cutlery!? You must be mad! Breath in the air, go to sleep.
Cutlery is what I use for eating. I use a knife to cut my food. I use a fork to put foto butter my toastod into my mouth. I use a bread knife to cut the bread.I use a spoon to eat mt cereal in the morning.i use a butter knife to spread the butter on my toast.
She was staring into the kitchen drawer, rearranging the cutlery.
“Aren’t we going to talk about this?” I asked.
“I’m busy,” she said, although I knew that all the knives had been in the right compartment from the start.
“Fair enough.”
He took the blade of his knife and placed it against her throat. His other hand clutched the hair at the top of her skull. He screamed warnings and threats. She could only silently comply in hopes her attacker would not take her life.
*TW CUTTING*
hands like scissors and fingers like knives he runs his hands across your body gently claiming he wants to make love so why’s it leave scars and why do you remember it like injury no one loves like this no one loves with so much intent to hurt
The clutter of cutlery, each piece melted and molded into a certain shape but after time becomes damaged. The tines of a fork twist every which way. The spoon’s neck is bent back too far. The knife has lost its poignance. Each utensil, regardless of its current condition, still serves a purpose. It is still part of the cutlery.
She gave back the plastic cutlery and asked the shopkeeper for chopsticks instead. She would have to wait a few days for the money to come from her sister, but she could not go home, or anywhere familiar, in the meantime. That meant eating “Obento”s and fast food for the foreseeable future. But her diet was the least of her worries. There were people looking for her, wanting to kill her. Then she remembered; they wanted to kill someone else too, and only she knew about it. Should she do something? What could she do?
They didn’t have a regular white door like everyone else. Instead, the Shims had big, heavy, dark wooden double-doors with ornate geometric windows carved into them. There was a shining expanse of polished wood floors in the antechamber and lacy curtains making the light coming through the windows shimmer opulently.
I see the new plastic vegetable cutting board, sitting there, waiting for me to open it from its plastic protection–I peel off the dollar tree packaging, then lay out the plastic cutting board, where I neatly slit square pieces of my cucumbers, onions, tomatoes. Balance is not a simple feat when your kitchen is being revived from three years of your messy and sloppy brother’s hungry stains. With oomph, I continue to prepare the tuna pasta!
She held her paintbrush to her face. Her lipstick to those lush beautiful patches of heaven. Along with all of her utensils and beauty cutlery… she was hiding herself.
the keen end of my words slice the house standing in the way of my endeavors,
I dice, especially when I hear the scorn of your doubt,
this is where I tout, through the imperfections of my flaws,
because music is the easing winds of my earth,
the same way your ears must heed to my requests,
no one can ban me from pursuing my march to endorse her innocent face,
he fragile mind that repeats my staring when I am not around,
when I am not about, she is my seed, she is what I breed into the world,
whereof she slaps the bib against her car seat,
I pound my words down their throats until they bow to me as their new employee,
a cutlery of words is what I use to choose my battles,
stepping forward with blades, knives, even daggers,
bring objections to my adherence, believe they will be chopped like a salmon by a long-standing fisherman!
I eat rice with a spoon.
Apparently that makes me greedy.
It’s true.
I don’t like sharing food.
I don’t like sharing most things.
I want to share myself.
I want to share my thoughts and my feelings but
Why should anyone listen?
The man sat waiting in the fine diner, checking his watch every five seconds or so. The fancy table included 7 different choices and his hands were burning
She never learned to sharpen her knives. As they dull, she simply purchases more. Drawers upon drawers of cleavers, bread knives, carvers, kullenschiff edges, parers, boning and santoku and utility knives. She feels safe at night.
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS WORD MEANS. NO MATTER HOW MUCH I TRY TO THINK OF IT, I CANNOT BRING UP A DEFINITION MENTALLY ABOUT A CUTLERY. IT KIND OF SOUNDS LIKE AN ACTUAL CUTLET LIKE A PORK OR VEAL CUTLET, BUT I ALSO THINK IT SOUNDS LIKE THE NAME OF A PLACE WHERE VARIOUS MEATS ARE CUT.
learning how to use this effectively takes much more effort than the eyes show you. all of the fine technique used for different types of cuts with different meats, produce and greens would impress anyone really. actually, just go ahead and thank the chef(s) in your family.
Pushing aside the fancy plates and cutlery, all gleaming gold under the light of the gaudy chandelier, I found a modest placard sporting my misshapen name, reminding me that I would be sitting in between Mister Wordschmidt and Missus Gallant from upstairs. I was beginning to rethink coming to this dinner party in the first place when I saw Missus Gallant’s gorgeous daughter sidle toward the table, her right hand holding up her long purple skirt.
Michael dropped the cutlery.
Everyone laughed at him. Nobody liked him anyways, so this was a good opportunity to make him feel like shit.
The cutlery sat on the floor.
She picked up the cutlery and stared at her plate. The food was swimming in grease, and looked disgusting. Pieces of meat oozing fat and limp vegetables. She put the cutlery down and pushed her plate away.
Good cutlery can define your ability to create something delicious and pleasing to look at. The right tools can give you the right results and the best product. How can a painter paint with an incorrect or bad brush?
I forgot my fork again. No way I can eat this lunch with my hands…….will have to borrow from the staff pool of cutlery. Hoping I remember to wash and put back. I have a collection at home already.
I should have spent more time in the kitchen. Anytime I see a friend or acquaintance deftly handle cutlery and cookware I feel as if I would just as soon slice my finger off at the tip than try slicing an onion on my own.