"Okay, you're going to have to lead me through it again." The redhead boy sighed.
The sigh was met with one of his father's own. "Sherman, I really don't see how you are struggling to memorise this. There's a distinct difference between each spoon, fork, and knife."
Sherman slumped back into the kitchen stool. "Maybe you should just go on your own, clearly I'm going to embarrass you anyway."
The beagle's face morphed into one of concern. "Sherman, I promise that you are not an embarrassment. The invitation stated that children and spouses are welcome, and I would prefer not to attend it alone."
Sherman ran a hand along his hair. "Why does that even matter? You were invited because you're in that committee thing."
Peabody straightened out the ensemble of knives before turning back to Sherman. "It's the Multinational Board of Climate Change Activism. Given my recent contribution to clean, renewable energy sources and applications for such sources, I was invited to enlist, and as a show of solidarity, I am attending their bi-annual dinner."
"But I thought you didn't like committees, or clubs, or anything exclusive like that because you said they're just for show." Sherman narrowed his gaze.
"Not typically, no. I reject dozens of invitations to IQ and wealth-related societies on a monthly basis. The MBCCA, however, is a highly functional society of great scientific minds, Sherman. Minds that are put to good use in saving our planet. I'm sure you'll find it fascinating!" Peabody smiled warmly, clasping his paws behind his back.
Sherman picked up a spoon, staring at his reflection in on its polished surface. "Sure, whatever you say. Now what's this one?" He turned his face back to his father.
"That's a soup spoon." He replied swiftly.
"What about these other ones?" Sherman gestured to the spread of 6 other spoons.
Peabody cleared his throat. "Dinner spoon, dessert spoon, teaspoon, coffee spoon, serving spoon, and a salad spoon."
"The word 'spoon' is starting to sound weird to me, Mr. Peabody." Sherman smirked.
Peabody shook his head unamused. "To think I'd never taught you this before. By thirteen you'd better know your spoons."
"That's a sentence I never expected to hear anyone say ever." Sherman giggled. "What about the forks?"
Another sigh. "Dinner fork, dessert fork, fish fork, cake fork, fruit fork, and a salad fork." Peabody droned monotonously, having already told Sherman their uses twice over before.
"Alright… what were the last three again?" Sherman raised a brow. Peabody closed his eyes, suppressing another sigh.
"Alternatively…" He began, hesitating. "Your utensils are ordered from the outside in, in order of use."
"You mean I didn't even need to know all of this? What a waste of time!" Sherman threw his hands up in the air.
"No, no, no, Sherman," Peabody raised his paws apprehensively, "It's still a good practice to come to understand the use of eating utensils!"
"But they're doing the thinking for us, so we don't have to! Why should I bother?" Sherman groaned. Peabody's eyes trailed to the ceiling for a moment, thinking of an answer.
"Oh no, you're going to turn it into another one of your weird life lessons, aren't you?" Sherman groaned. Peabody didn't respond, instead continuing to think for a few more seconds.
"Perhaps my years of experience as a home chef and dietary health enthusiast have ingrained a bias in me but let me offer this as an example. Would you prefer to think for yourself, or entrust another being to make your decisions for you?" The dog climbed onto the stool beside his son, his eyes not leaving the boy's own.
"Huh? I just like not having to think about what fork to use, what are you talking about?" Sherman asked confusedly.
"People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought, which they seldom use." Peabody replied. "Not my own words, as much as I wish they were, but rather Søren Kierkegaard's, a philosophical favourite of mine during my formative years. If you do not indulge yourself with the knowledge to comfortably make decisions autonomously and keep your interests in mind, others will make them for you. At the dinner, you will meet but a few individuals that were wise enough to break from that mould, and stand for what they believe in. They choose their own forks, so that nobody else can. Do you understand?" Peabody concluded, furrowing his brows at his son, awaiting an answer.
Sherman's eyes scanned Mr. Peabody's face, processing everything he'd just been told. "…It's just forks, Mr. Peabody."
Peabody's face flushed with humour, breaking into a chuckle. "It's more than just forks, Sherman. You'll understand when you're older. In the meantime," He jabbed Sherman in the arm lightly with the prongs of a salad fork, "get to know your forks."