“When my kids first saw me, they thought I was a butterknife. Yeah, that hurt … My son thinks this is what a fully grown knife looks like. He’s starting to develop his edges and he’s getting scared.” Said Nilly Kniveston, an older knife with once-serrated edges completely smoothed out from years of cutting dry chicken.

Watery soup, soggy rice, sawdusty chicken, we’ve seen it all. But us students never think of or pay mind to those like Mr. Kniveston who’ve spent their whole lives in UR dining halls. They’ve served us in silence, having seen the good — like those two times Douglass was serving actual (albeit mini) cannolis — and the ugly — like the pulled pork epidemic that seemed to plague both Danforth and Douglass for two consecutive months. 

They’re the ones left behind. Year after year after year. They watched sandwiches go from being put out in full, then in halves. Unnoticed. But they go unnoticed no longer, all thanks to the recent downfall of UR’s plateocracy. 

Dating back to the school’s establishment in 1850, the plateocracy has had its sporks in the heart of UR for more than a century. That first year was marked by a steady stream of young Rochester utensils with a youthful glow, all looking to expand their horizons through the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of working at a university. 

“We were gonna provide young minds with the food they need to grow,” Mr. Kniveston recalls fondly, “so young, not yet jaded by the horrors of university dining, that’s what I thought would happen … I couldn’t have been more wrong.”

Over a century later, traces of optimism became few and far between as reality started to set in. “I lost my first prong in a salad somewhere and was so busy that I didn’t even realize until I heard a shriek from the brunette econ major who was holding me,” said Sporkalina, a spork who is now (unfortunately) prongless. “UR Dental made out good that year,” Sporkalina noted with a chuckle.  

“Training was rough on everyone — most notably us ladles,” said Spoonie, a not-so-stainless steel ladle who’s been working for UR since the administration of the plateocracy. “When I saw I had been assigned to the soup station, my heart just sank.” Worse, during the ladle shortage some spoons had to be drafted in — “it was the scariest time of my life,” Spoonie said, a tarnished shell of the polished ladle she once was, “I forgot what air felt like, the forking tomato soup was just too thick.”

“Once 2024 rolled around, we realized things wouldn’t get much better if we didn’t speak out on these atrocities,” said Mr. Kniveston.  

“I was down to my last prong; I didn’t think I was going to make it out alive,” said Sporkalina with a thousand-yard stare. “I thought they put you out of commission years ago,” Spoonie remarked. “You’re funny,” Sporkalina said. 

The plateocracy protests this fall were rough on everybody. “I couldn’t even hold a sign, I mean, look at me,” remarked Sporkalina with a chuckle. Others struggled to form their message: “I mean, there was just so much to say. It’s been 117,600 meals: three meals a day, seven days a week, 32 weeks a year, for 175 years.” To students, these past months have been marked by relentless fire drills at extremely inconvenient times. However, for the utensils, the time has been marked by something far more sinister: a silencing of the masses.

Unbeknownst to the students, the fire drills were but a mere coverup for the plateocracy protests that had been unfolding in the Danforth kitchen. Thousands of utensils old and new set out nightly in the hopes of finally being able to retire and put the horrors of the old regime behind them. 

“Everything else has been upgraded, why haven’t we?” Sporkalina said.

“I left when my son was a mere cocktail fork and now he’s a full-grown pitchfork,” said Forklin, a two-pronged fork who has served the Danforth Fusion station since the dining hall’s establishment. “Takes after his old man, I suppose. But this old man wants to be there. This old man has missed out on too much of his life.”

Admin had been setting off the fire alarms to hide the protests, looking to muffle chants about the horrors they’ve had to endure, like five-day-a-week exposure to watery pesto and the trials and tribulations of serving the pasta station during the great cheese shortage. 

Starting this spring, after much inconvenience to everyone’s sleep schedules, the utensils’ concerns were finally heard. A new administration has been instated: the papertocracy, one that promises some much-needed relief from years of torture, torment, and despair at the stations and tabletops of Danforth Dining Center through the use of single-use dishware and utensils. 

Now, forks are able to be reunited with families. Plates are able to go home after decades in the kitchen. Spoons are able to live life on the dry-side, no longer submerged in sloppily executed imitations of soups and sauces. 

“Thank God. I was getting really tired of the watery lentils and mediocre cheddar cheese sauce commonly served in Danforth,” said Spoonie.  

For ordinary ladles like Spoonie, this change signals a brighter future: “Now I finally feel comfortable bringing another teaspoon into the world.”



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