Alice Gets Saved (from switching)

"Boots is not going to be a switcher!" a friend said about her charmer of a daughter. It took a few beats for me to understand that we weren't addressing Boots' sexuality, but proper utensil strategy. Under penalty of spanking, the child would eventually (she was still on the bottle) feed herself with the same hand she pierced the morsel of foie and never, ever 'switch' that fork to her more dominant hand to eat. I blushed, because I was harboring a shameful secret. I was raised by wolves. As a result I was switcher, fork went from left to right and then into mouth. I then realized I spent my life eating at the table as if it were the trough and my regrettable habits had been impediments to my getting ahead in life. God is great (though a little too late) and opportunity came my way last year when I was putting the sagrantino to bed. Conveniently already on the west coast, I was invited to the Meadowood resort ostensibly to get a file applied to those rough edges. This was a test drive for some 'Wine Etiquette" weekends they were going to offer (do not know if they still do.). Their target audience was not the bull in the Lalique shop journalist, but those newly in love with wine, looking for Napa in other countries and needed to know how to fold their napkin, to make small conversation ( I should have listened harder) to flirt with their neighbors wife, how to eat in a way that would not provoke snickers and how not to switch, (should they choose.) Because it seems when you 'switch' you broadcast a class and breeding or lack of. I have Deborah King to thank. She not only helped me use my fork with the dexterity of a violin bow, (tines and horsehair DOWN please) AND with my left hand, no switching from right to left, but I also learned a handy trick for walk around tasting, eating events. I suggest you try this in the privacy of your own home before you chance an accident in public.