pointy bamboo sticks

I took forks for granted. I tried to practice using chopsticks before I left America, but usually gave up quickly. When I arrived in China, I became accustomed to waitresses, friends, and even fellow foreigners laughing at my frustrated facial expressions as I tried to trap a piece of slippery eggplant with two pointy bamboo sticks. The area of tablecloth between my mouth and the shared dishes became a landing strip for cabbage, dumplings, and other slippery food escaping an imminent trip into my belly. It was just not happening.

Chopsticks became my biggest enemy. I easily picked up certain “Chinese habits” required to survive in this city, but every time I sat down to eat, I was reminded that I was still completely out of my element. I couldn’t feed myself without getting a lap full of rice; I might as well have been a toddler. I felt the judging eyes of every native chopstick user in the vicinity. My embarrassment deepened when restaurant workers began sympathetically offering me a spoon.

As weeks passed, I became more comfortable. I started to refuse the spoon out of pride, and my Chinese friends began to notice my improvement. But my hands were still sore after every meal. I still had to look at and constantly adjust my hand posture, and every movement was a very conscious, deliberate action to get that delicious morsel into my mouth.

But today was different. After seven weeks of awkward chopstick use, I sat down at one of my regular eateries and ordered a hearty plate of spicy eggplant and fried rice. Half way through my meal I realized I had not thought about my chopsticks once. I was using them naturally. My hand picked them up, placed them in the correct position. I was scooping up the tiniest pieces of fried rice and delivering it to my mouth without a mess.

I began to smile uncontrollably. I looked up, and the kind restaurant owner, who had witnessed those weeks of embarrassment, beamed with pride. She noticed too.