Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
There I sat, forking furiously at my big little salad, when a calamity of epic proportions manifested itself in the middle of my meal. My fork snapped. Snapped, like the hip of an osteoporosis-ridden septuagenarian trying to walk her precious Pomeranian after a bout of freezing rain.
I adore plastic forks. They are so smooth. So lightweight. No metal aftertaste. The best ones are from Captain D's. Or McDonald's. The ones that come with Walmart deli salads, I throw away. None of those cheap, ridged-tine weaklings for shoveling my vittles. They go right into the wastebasket. The flimsy forks. Not the vittles. That would be like throwing the baby out, and keeping the bath. Except babies are not so tasty as a big little salad. That I know of.
When my fork failed, I was left holding the handle. It was a clean break. Approximately an inch from the body proper. At first I was horrified. Then I realized that the tines were intact. I picked up my new mini-fork and went back to town on that salad.
It was essential that I replenish the energy I had expended in tonight's repeat coldecystectomy.