I Have a Favorite Fork and Other Ways I Disassociate
How all the things I've stolen throughout my career as a server are helping me find comfort in these apocalyptic times.
Hello, people! Starting out another fun week with you here in AJPT-land, we have so many good surprises coming up these next few days in particular and I can’t wait to hear what you think of them all. I’m NOT good at keeping secrets (I take that back - I am excellent at keeping lifelong major secrets, but terrible at not revealing the lesser ones almost instantly upon knowing them - like, as I am hearing them, I am already surging with excitement about who I am going to tell them to first), but I am going to try here.
I also just want to say that because we have an awesome array of new subscribers (hello, new subscribers! I love you already!), I want to highly encourage new folks to look around the site at all of the amazing (if I do say so myself) past content on here and know that I love to keep talking about it here as much as you want to. You could pick a category like It Happened To Me (IHTM) and run through a bunch of those, or pick a writer that you love (say, Charlie, for instance!) and read the great variety of posts he has done here.
I know I don't need to tell you how to operate this thing, so I won't go on. But it's fun to see new people looking around finding past content to love or not. Because everything we write about here is weird/off/new in some way, it virtually never gets old. Wow, I never talk about my own work in such glowing terms. I'm just so happy that you're here and you know what else I love love love? When you tell me what you hate. That's so much fun too and leads to the best conversations. So let's all keep talking in the comments. And if you’re not new, feel free to be nice and welcoming to the new kids there too - you know the deal. Thank you all!
xo, Monday Jane
By: Genevieve Sage
Nothing in my life feels under control, but at least I know which fork I want to use. Yes, I have a favorite fork—and I bet you do, too.
As a creative, my paid job for years was mostly serving tables—EXCUSE ME, being a Server, though I’ve never loved that word. It sounds too close to “Servant,” which reminds me of the time I worked for a circus (yes, really) and an elderly socialite, drunk on too many grasshopper cocktails, loudly referred to us as “The Help.”
Anyway! I’ve worked at more restaurants, bars, seafood houses, and French bistros than I can count—plus one literal circus where I was both employee and sideshow attraction (“The Girl Who Can Balance a Martini While Crying!”). Somewhere along the way — after a late-night meal from a particularly comely chef — I stole a fork. But not just any fork. A fork of destiny. Hefty, with elegant grooves along the handle, the kind of fork that twirls pasta like a ballerina and clinks against a thrifted, chipped plate like it’s composing a symphony. This fork has been my loyal companion, traveling with me from Seattle to L.A. to Portland and everywhere in between, like a culinary Excalibur I can’t quit.
I save things. My sister calls me a “hoarder-in-waiting,” but I prefer “sentimental minimalist with mild kleptomania.” And honestly? That feels thematically on point for someone who clings to small, oddly specific comforts while the world spirals like a toilet flush—finding the perfect café table with just the right lighting, sitting in the same seat at the movies like it’s reserved by divine right, grabbing a magazine from the back of the rack because it hasn’t been manhandled by strangers, and that quiet, almost spiritual joy when a friend cancels plans. Honestly? Creature comforts and pilfered silverware might be all that’s standing between me and total emotional collapse.
Like most people, my home is less a reflection of personal style and more a chaotic museum of life’s leftovers. I didn’t choose a mismatched aesthetic so much as it chose me—one purloined fork at a time:
A giant metal salad bowl that “accidentally” made its way into my tote after a catering gig.
Stacks of nearly identical gift bags and reems of ribbon swiped from engagement parties, baby showers, and charity banquets left behind by put-together party planners.
Half-drunk bottles of overpriced wedding wine that, at one point, I literally STASHED IN BUSHES.
Vases. So many vases. And reams of ribbon.
A terrarium. Of succulents. (yeah, you read that right).
If it was technically free and just sitting there, I probably took it. And now? Now my life looks like an estate sale hosted by someone with expensive taste and zero impulse control.
There’s a certain charm in an aesthetic built from objects with past lives—a chipped thrift store plate that’s probably served better meals than I’ve ever cooked, a collection of glassware from various bars that I swear felt like party favors at the time. And, of course, The Fork. Nothing matches, but it all belongs. Maybe that’s the vibe: a life cobbled together from found objects, borrowed time, and the occasional crime of opportunity.
Hence, the line “I have a favorite fork and other ways I dissociate” came to me the other day while frantically rummaging for my one true utensil. Why that fork? I have plenty of other forks, all crammed into that flimsy $5 IKEA silverware holder like sad, forgotten stepchildren. But this fork? This fork brings me joy. This fork is comfort. Why? Oh, I don’t know, MAYBE BECAUSE THE WORLD IS COLLAPSING AND MY RIGHTS AS A WOMAN ARE BEING STRIPPED AWAY LIKE WE’RE IN SOME SICK, OFF-BRAND HANDMAID’S TALE PLOT TWIST?!
Oh? Am I being dramatic? Absolutely. That’s my whole deal. I’m a human raccoon in a power blazer. So yeah, I’m gonna claim what’s mine—whether it’s a stolen fork, a pilfered wine glass, or the leftover half-drunk Prosecco from a five-hour reception where I had to pass apps like I was goddamn Melanie Griffith in the Dim Sum scene from “Working Girl,” steam smearing my makeup, scuffed Danskos on my feet, playing tray-to-mouth Tetris with shrimp dumplings. Hell. Yes. That’s mine.
My current anthem? “Messy” by Lola Young. “But cut me some slack, who do you want me to be? ‘Cause I'm too messy and then I'm too fucking clean...” It’s a wailing winter hymn for the last of us chaotic girls—standing in defiant opposition to anything "tidy," "curated," or "perfect." And honestly? That is an aesthetic I can get behind.
Because it’s not just what’s in my cupboards that don’t match: I don’t even match. I color my grays dark brown and leave just enough for that streak of white Kathleen Hanna has. A skosh of punk.
“But one day,” I tell myself, “I will get my shit together!”
I imagine that I will go to Williams Sonoma (or let’s be real, World Market) and buy those perfect plates — you know, those rustic, jewel-toned ceramic wonders made by artisans in a Portuguese village who use ancestral pottery techniques.
And then — I’ll finally get that fancy brass cutlery set I imagine Gwyneth keeps in the seventh guest house of her Hamptons compound, probably nestled between her jade yoni eggs and a small altar to organic oat milk. [Full disclosure that Gwyneth is an old friend and Genevieve now loves to tease me with that phrase ever since I said that while we were editing this piece, but I feel it is my friendly duty to state she has no seventh guest house in the Hamptons. Now back to you, other G friend! -Jane] And when that happens? I’ll frame my favorite fork like it’s a goddamn war hero. Because sometimes, hyper-focusing on the tiniest, most insignificant things (like the perfect fork) is the only thing standing between me and a full-scale existential meltdown. It’s like rearranging the same bookshelf for the tenth time, or carrying an emotional support water bottle that’s seen more drama than a Real Housewife reunion.
Dissociation? Oh, honey, at this point, it’s less of a coping mechanism and more of a lifestyle brand. So maybe having a favorite fork isn’t a sign that I’m losing my grip on reality — it’s proof I’m holding on with both hands, white-knuckling my way through the chaos. And honestly? That realization alone makes me want to twirl some pasta like it’s a lifeline. How about you?
Up until when my wife civilized me in my late 30s, all of my silverware was stolen from the Purdue dining halls. Most of my glasses were stolen from bars. And all my plates were accumulated from other roommates. Nothing matched and I had a favorite of everything.
Somebody get this woman a sitcom! She’s self-deprecatingly funny, a dry rolling wit, and a shot glass size of quirky that makes you want more! The Fork, could and should be it’s own episode as we can a relate to this article. Good stuff!