It's Not a Shovel

When I was fifteen or so my parents went away for a week in July and left my sister and I with an old woman named Jeanette. I railed hard against this, to no avail.
“Sarah’s too young to be left alone for a week,” they said, “Jeanette’s coming mostly for her sake.”
Mostly.
Jeanette, like many older people, believed that the only manners that mattered were those of others: other drivers, other church-goers, other restaurant patrons, other people whose respect she had earned because she was born a substantial amount of time before them. Her own manners she neglected. Something about not having much time left makes people feel entitled to spend what time they have thinking exclusively about themselves—only one reason of many why people over sixty should be barred from holding public office, but I digress.

At fifteen I began learning how to cook, and one night while we were with Jeanette I made dinner. I microwaved frozen corn, baked some potatoes, and pan-fried some pork chops. I put garlic powder and salt and pepper on the pork chops, the way I always did, and because they were thick I cooked them slowly over low heat.
As I cooked, Jeanette watched. She didn’t trust me, and when she saw how I was cooking the pork chops she adjusted the heat on the stove for me.
“You’ll never get those cooked without some sizzle in the pan,” she told me.
“No, you’ll burn them,” I told her.
“Young man, you aren’t going to make me sick with undercooked pig flesh,” she said, and set the knob to high heat.
Later at the dinner table Jeanette admitted that the pork chops were burned, which made me feel a little better. Then, as though to make up for the lapse, she told me to stop using my fork like it was a shovel.
“But I’m growing,” I said, defusing the situation as best I could.
“Growing sideways, maybe,” said Jeanette.
It’s amazing how I can forget so much about childhood, but still remember that conversation perfectly. I remember where I was sitting, and I remember the look on her face as she spoke. It wasn’t a mean look. Most people don’t try to be mean, they do it by accident, by failing to think about things outside of themselves. At the time I didn’t know that, and I looked carefully at Jeanette’s face to find some hint of dislike or anger. All I saw was a stupid old woman, just like millions of others, only this one was friends with my parents. Seeing that she spoke not out of anger but unable to recognize the motive, and being too stupid myself to know better, I put my fork down and forced myself not to eat anymore. It was burnt pork anyway.
She did many nice things for me after that, but I don’t remember many of them. If I saw her on the street tomorrow, I don’t know if I would be civil.