Yesterday, I counted the forks and spoons in our kitchen drawers. I assume that you, too, dear reader, have recently done the same. But if you haven’t gotten around to it yet, be prepared to have your world turned upside down: 43 forks, 36 spoons. These numbers do not include serving spoons, inherited utensils, or long-speared forks used for piercing slabs of beef. 

43 forks, 36 spoons! I can’t get these numbers out of my head. Who on God’s Green Earth needs this many kitchen utensils? My somewhat OCD mom used to insist that all the spoons and forks in her kitchen be placed on their edges, nestled one against the other in their proper places, always facing to the right. On our visits home as adults, one of us children would reverse the direction of one of the forks; it drove my mother nuts.

Mom probably had around 43 forks because she kept a kosher home. Forks, spoons, and knives were stored in separate drawers, one for dairy, the other for meat, maybe 20-or-so of each utensil in each drawer. OK. Twenty forks makes some sense to me.  When our kids and grandkids are all here (quite often!), there are 13 of us to feed. When you account for a spoon or fork shoved under a couch pillow or accidentally (?) tossed in the trash, we need a few extra.

Column-follower, we have now reached a proverbial fork in the direction this column is heading. For my excess of kitchen cutlery leads me to ask the following “big” questions: “Who am I? Whom have I become? Am I a good person?” Yes, family and friends would confirm my overall goodness, but, honestly, I question my core values and beliefs. 

Outside the kitchen, I realize that my footprint on the Earth is much too large. I could go on and on about my excesses: a home (I love) that is twice the size I need, my use of air conditioning, my reliance on gas-run cars, an excess of cardboard and plastic in my everyday life, the number of Amazon deliveries I receive — it sounds as if I am a lousy excuse for a caring human being. And taking walks around my neighborhood only makes matters worse: shirts and sheets air-drying on clotheslines, homes heated by wood stoves, Save The Planet signs dotting front lawns — how many forks do these people have? I’d wager far fewer than 43!

I talk the talk; my neighbors walk the walk. That’s often my take on my life. And yet, and yet … I am a kind person. I give to causes, vote for morally upright candidates, love my large family, and help out in the community. I have spent my entire adult life teaching and working with young children, a noble occupation if ever there was one. 

Philosophers and scholars in the field agree that a good person is someone who embodies compassion, honesty, empathy, and kindness. A good person respects others’ viewpoints and tries to help the less fortunate. Honestly, I think I have lived my life embracing these traits — not perfectly, perhaps, but probably as fully as could be expected of a member of the human race.

So, I remind myself, despite my (many) flaws, I must be a good person, big footprint and all. Dear reader, are you as confused by this as I am? It seems, at age 75, that I am still grappling with the mumble jumble of what it means to be a person, and with the simple fact that none of us is perfect.

Still: 43 forks? Come on! That’s ridiculous, isn’t it?

Gene Stamell eats his meals, one fork at a time,  in Leverett. He can be reached at gstamell@gmail.com