Last night, a tiny puzzle piece got pushed underneath one of our very heavy bookcases.

What could we do?

Well, we tried using paper since it was thin enough to slide under there but it wasn’t sturdy enough to push the piece out. Then we tried the vacuum. It vacuumed up a lot of dust – no puzzle piece. Lastly, my husband asked me to bring a kitchen knife.

Don't let the knifeyness confuse you. This is not a kitchen knife.

“You mean a steak knife?” I asked.

“No, you know, a kitchen knife,” he answered.

And so I immediately looked to the big butcher block of knives and grabbed for the longest ginsu wannabe knife that we have.

“I’ve got a really long knife we could try,” I announced.

“No, not a butcher knife … you know, a food knife.”

“What are you talking about? A food knife? WTH is a food knife? Aren’t all knives food knives?!”

The repartee continued until the lightbulb went on and I said, “Ohhhh … you mean a butter knife?”

And with that, we were back to speaking the same language again.

It’s actually pretty odd that we’re the country with the butter knife since Brits use butter far more than we do (at least in the non-Paula Deen worshipping part of the country). In fact, I think we’re much more of a margarine knife kind of land. A Country Crock knife or I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter knife kind of country.

I should note that I’ve received no payment from the Country Crock or I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter people for this message, although Paula Deen is welcome to pay me in gooey butter cake.)

And if you’re wondering, we never did get that puzzle piece from under the bookcase.