In Which Spoons Are for Babies

When I first got to China, it was my habit to fling vegetables on the floor. Eggplant, potato, kale -- I did not discriminate. It all went on the floor. Sometimes, to keep things interesting, I dribbled noodles onto my lap.

Then I would gaze reproachfully at my chopsticks: A little help here, please? If I was eating with someone, I would shrug ruefully and shake my chopsticks, indicating that they might be broken.

I should have practiced before I left America, I guess. I just never saw the point. If I was eating at a Chinese restaurant, forks always were offered, and a fork seemed like the most expeditious means of transporting food to my mouth.

But now, I would guess there's not a fork in the entire Xinjiang Province. So, when in China... (fling your vegetables on the floor).

About a quarter of my first meal in this country ended up on the floor, in my lap or on the tablecloth. I'd get precarious hold of a potato chunk, but could tell by the way it trembled and shook that this wasn't going to end well. And sproing! The chopsticks jerked in opposite directions, like they had somewhere else to be. Bye-bye, potato chunk.

The waitress, who was hovering nearby, hustled over and asked if I wanted a spoon. I was about to fall on her neck with a weeping "YES!" when Alena, my school's wonderful foreign affairs officer, with whom I was eating, tittered and told her of course I didn't want a spoon. Spoons are for babies.

So, I've practiced. And practiced. Grain of rice after grain of rice, lifted slowly and deliberately to my mouth. It was necessary, not only so I don't starve, but because people always want to know: Yes, but how is she with chopsticks?

Now? Proficient, I'm happy to report. In fact, the other day, as I ate lunch at the restaurant near my school, I felt downright philosophical. Using chopsticks is such a contemplative way to eat, I mused, thoughtfully transporting a few grains of rice at a time to my mouth. I really consider everything I eat. It takes finesse. I truly taste everything.

Feeling benevolent, I gazed beatifically at the other diners -- all of whom were Chinese -- and watched as they held their bowls of rice directly beneath their mouths and used the chopsticks to shovel it in.

Finesse, my butt.

So, I feel a little less furtive in the mornings when I glance this way and that, close the curtains, lock the door and eat my bowl of milk and rice with a spoon.