Several years ago, a colleague of my husband invited our family to his home for dinner.  We just had a toddler at the time, but they had four young children so it was a pretty casual affair–grilled burgers and whatnot.  Well, the whatnot turned out to be the salad we had brought, half-frozen french fries (they threw a 4 lb Costco-type bag of OreIda’s into a 9×13 cake pan and baked it for a random amount of time), and ketchup.  As their oldest child was preparing his plate he asked if there was any mustard or lettuce or pickles for his hamburger, to which his mother replied, “We’re not doing anything fancy.”  And then his dad, reaching into my salad bowl with his bare hands, says, “Hey, we’ve got lettuce and tomatoes right here!”

(What’s my point?  Sorry, just trying to set the scene.)  Anyways, we were using paper plates and plastic ware, which is a perfectly acceptable form of tableware for such a non-fancy dinner party–believe me, I’m a big fan of the disposable dish.  But as I was trying to saw the hockey puck that was my son’s hamburger patty into bite-size pieces, my plastic knife was just not cutting it.  I inquired of my hosts where I might find another knife, and they directed me to their “silverware” drawer.  I say “silverware” because not only was the ware not silver, it wasn’t stainless steel or aluminum or any other kind of metal from which you might forge an eating implement.  It was all plastic!  And not even the heavy, intended-for-multiple-use kind–just plain old white plastic!  I looked around the room in awe as I realized that, with the exception of their pots and pans, there was narry a dish in sight.  Just paper plates and plastic ware!  I didn’t know whether to be horrified or jealous (this woman must never have to do dishes!).  Either way, I was most definitely amused.  And forever after our hosts were known to us, and all who would hear their tale, as Plasticware Man and Plasticware Man’s Wife.

I bring this up because after spending some time examining my own dish issues, I realized I may have judged Plasticware Man and Plasticware Man’s Wife too harshly.  Perhaps she suffers from dishophobia as well.  Perhaps the two of us can start a movement to bring awareness to our plight and give others the courage to come out of the cupboard, so to speak.  Perhaps there will be enough of us that the powers that be will be forced to officially recognize and legitimize our illness, and then Fredd can finally add us to the list.  Perhaps then the healing can begin.