My Deepest Darkest Secret

Confession time.....


I like to think that I'm a good person.    I try.  I help out the homeless.  I pay for people's groceries sometimes.   I've bought the person's coffee behind me at Starbucks.  I don't beat my husband, my kid, or my dog.  I pay my taxes on time.    

See?  A good person.

Take me to a restaurant and turn me loose with all those little candy-colored  plastic dipping cups and I'm not responsible for my behavior. Worse yet take me to  a steakhouse and give me those sharp, rosewood handled knives and I turn into a raving, discerning kleptomaniac.

My husband and daughter have teased me for years.  I am NOT ashamed to say that we have 13 of the condiment cups from Red Lobster.  It's really their fault, though.   Bring me an unpartitioned  Styrofoam  to-go box and what else am I suppose to do in order to take home my pina colada dipping sauce for my coconut shrimp?  Otherwise, the sauces gets in my left over mashed potatoes or that one lonely Cheddar Bay biscuits I threatened stabbing my husband over. I HAVE to take the little dipping bowl home.  There's no choice, really.

You cannot defile the biscuit with tartar sauce.

It's like a rule or something.

If you eat chicken, pork chops, or a steak at my house you will find that all my good steak knives are of restaurant quality.  They should be.  They all came from Logan's Steakhouse or The Road House.

It all started one date night when we went out, and I ordered a steak. After using such dull knives at home, I was shocked by how smoothly this piece of fine cutlery cut.   We spent about sixty bucks that night for a couple of steaks that weren't cooked correctly, but I loved the knife.... I took it home with my leftovers as a consolation prize.  

Yes, I didn't like the steak, but I took the leftovers home.    And I stole a knife.

I'm not proud, people.   It was a low moment, and the beginning of my need for an intervention.

I used the heck out of that knife.  I loved it.   But alas it grew dull.   And an obsession began.

Here's the part where I'm going to try to rationalize breaking one of the commandments.   I only took one knife at a time.   Only if it was really sharp.  And once I had six a set of six, lovely, heavy, sharp Rosewood handled knives, I stopped.

The thrill was gone.  I had a set.

I haven't taken any knives in a long time, and I think it is starting to bother my husband now.  Big Daddy used to get upset by it, but lately he's changed.  

Just the other day, we were sitting in a restaurant, and he was all, "Hey... look at this fork.  It's such a pretty fork.  So heavy in your hand.  It just feels so good when you hold it.   It's almost like my favorite fork at home.  I wish we had forks like this at home.    You want this one?"

I, of course, was properly shocked!   Steal a fork???  Are you kidding?   We have a full set of forks at home!  What kind of fiend steals cutlery from a restaurant?

Big Daddy raised his eyebrow and gave me a look.

Oh yeah.    Me.