Being very young. Family dinner.

I have very early memories at time. This week I vividly recalled being young enough to be seated in a highchair at the dining room table, within the yellow kitchen of Lincoln Nebraska. 

My older brother, mom and dad were there. We encircled the small table nestled in the kitchen.

I watched. The others, well mom and dad anyway, attacked their food vigorously with shiny, noisey, rapidly moving silverware. It was a two-fisted, double-armed massacre. 

The noise that knives and forks made on dinner plates was loud, cutting, startling and overwhelming. It was like the big people were mad at the food. This did not look like a pleasant encounter. Whatever was on the plates were the losers. Silverware brandished, the winners.

It's odd noting what undiagnosed Autistic me thought and felt way back then.

Dinners were loud and noisy. I didn't like to watch or hear other people attacking their food.