Depending on who we’re with, when eating out SA often has to consider his choice of food based upon how easily it can be eaten with a fork or spoon, which pretty much limits him to rice and pasta dishes. Having to ask me to cut up his food in front of people or ask the chef to is quite understandably not his preferred situation on most occasions. He has in the past asked the chef to cut up his steak only for it to arrive rarer than he would have preferred and not much he can do about it – a massacred mess bleeding treacherously into his mash . The last pie he asked the chef to cut up was presented to him by the waitress who apologised with a screwed up face saying “sorry, it doesn’t look very nice” . . . (it did look like she’d sat on it).
Of course when he’s with me or immediate family the etiquette goes out the window. At such times, anything that can be speared with a fork and brought to the mouth will do, even if it’s a steak the size of a dinner plate. Theoretically food doesn’t actually need to be cut up to be eaten . . . even the Neanderthals knew that.
We had a wedding anniversary while SA was in hospital during his rehab. In celebration of all things love, I brought in a monster dinner of pakora’s, curry and bread. As we romanced each other in the ambience of the ward – the beeping monitors, squeaky floors and fluorescent lighting, SA heartily shovelled in his curry with his naan. We reflected that all things considered, this might be the best anniversary we’d ever had. SA took a moment to confide to me that since any useful hand function had all but gone he was concerned that his method of eating may no longer be fit for public viewing. When I had stopped laughing I gently assured him that I doubted anyone that knew him would notice.