I thought the word “fork” was in the Frost poem somewhere, but it’s not.
Nonetheless, this does not diminish the LOA miracle of last night.
After walking to and fro Cristy’s pad (60 minutes each way), and realizing I wanted some pasta before Adrian swung by, I also had a dim recollection that there was no silverware in my fabulous Hell’s Kitchen pad.
I got a plastic fork on the way from the Amish Market (which is bizarrely owned and operated by Turks –– don’t worry I confronted them) –– but as I was boiling water, I realized I had no way to stir the pasta.
And then … the one thing I needed … a single fork shimmered out at me from the dish dryer. The only piece of cutlery in the house, and the only one I needed.
The fork NOT taken.
How much less sad to have my meal with metal rather than plastic.
Anyway –– here’s the Frost poem (which would have been so much better had it been about silverware.)
The Road Not Taken
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
