HERE ARE SOME OF THE ANSWERS:
it’s a bone for a glass dog. they were bred in the early 19th century; but short life span made it impossible to keep them viable.
A serving knife rest, so your lovely lace tablecloth will not be stained.
Congrats on keeping the comments clean everyone!
Baby dumbbell. No one likеs a weak baby.
It’s a knife rest. These are not only for the carving knife, but one is at each place setting for resting the table knife after it’s used. It is NOT for the butter knife. The butter knife remains across the bread plate.
My grandmother had two. I don’t know about her background, buy she had many instruments that showed she entertained often.. I have a set of 12 salt cellars with tiny crystal spoons to sift the salt from the cellars over individual food. We used them at Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners.
Today none of my children know how to “play” fancy meals.
Sad tradition. If it won’t get washed in a dishwasher, they won’t keep them in their house.
No talking- no experiences other than food from a paper bag.
To lay you knife on after you cut your meat so you don’t mess up your tablecloth
Knife rest. Kind of likе a chopstick rest
Dirty knife rest keeps table cloth clean.
Lol I have one from my mom, never knew what it was for. Now I do! Thanks
Wow!! Thank you for insights!! So cool to have this group!! The knife rests sure are beautiful!!
Have one just likе this. Resting of the carving knife, if you only have one.\
I’ve never seen one, they are beautiful!
Wow! I thought I knew different types of serving utensils, but I didn’t know this one. Thank you for sharing!
We used t have one likе that, my Mom and my Grandma’s. Salt roller maybe?
I have a set of them
It’s to set a knife holder.
A knife rest is a small, often decorative, object used to keep the blade of a knife from touching the surface of a table or countertop when it’s not in use. They come in various shapes and materials, ranging from simple metal designs to more ornate versions made of silver, porcelain, or other materials. They can add a touch of elegance to a dining table while also serving a practical purpose.
Certainly! Knife rests have been a part of dining culture for centuries, originating in the 17th century in France. Back then, they were primarily made of metal or porcelain and were often adorned with intricate designs, reflecting the opulence of the time.
In addition to their decorative function, knife rests serve a practical purpose. Placing a knife directly on the table can not only damage the table surface but also transfer food residue and germs. Knife rests elevate the blade, preventing contact with the table and maintaining hygiene standards during meals.
Over time, knife rests have evolved in design and materials, catering to various tastes and aesthetics. While traditional designs still remain popular, contemporary versions featuring minimalist styles or innovative shapes have also emerged, appealing to modern sensibilities.
In formal dining settings, such as fine restaurants or elegant dinner parties, the use of knife rests adds a sophisticated touch to the table setting. They are often part of a coordinated set of tableware, complementing the overall aesthetic and enhancing the dining experience.
Beyond their practical and decorative aspects, knife rests also hold historical and cultural significance. They evoke a sense of tradition and etiquette, reminding us of bygone eras when elaborate table settings were an essential part of refined dining.
Whether used for everyday meals or special occasions, the humble knife rest continues to play a subtle yet essential role in dining etiquette and table presentation, embodying a fusion of functionality, beauty, and tradition.
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After I restored the motorcycle my father had gifted me, he took it back — so I found a way to get my revenge

I caught them effortlessly, but I was confused.
“What’s this for?” I asked. They didn’t look like car keys, and I already had my mom’s old car anyway.
My dad nodded toward a dusty tarp in the corner of the garage. It had been there for as long as I could remember, covering up something that I was told not to touch.
When I pulled the tarp off, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was my dad’s old Harley, a ’73 Shovelhead. It was the stuff of my childhood dreams, the bike that had always seemed just out of reach.
All I had wanted to do when I was younger was steal my dad’s leather jacket and sit on the motorcycle. But he always shouted at me whenever I tried to touch it.
“If there’s one scratch on it, Seth,” he would say, “I’ll take all your spending money away.”
That was enough to keep me away from the dream bike.
“You’re giving me the Harley?” I asked, my voice a mix of disbelief and excitement.
My father shrugged it off like it was nothing.
“Yeah, why not, son?” he declared. “It hasn’t run in years, to be honest, so good luck with that. Consider it a late birthday gift, Seth.”
I could barely believe it.
I was finally going to ride that bike, and feel the engine roaring beneath me, the wind in my hair. It was going to be everything I had dreamt of and more. I was finally going to be like my dad.
I ran my hand over the cracked leather seat, taking in the gift.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I promise I’ll take good care of her.”
The moment those keys were in my hand, that motorcycle became my new obsession.
“Jeez, son,” the mechanic said when I took the Harley over in a friend’s old pickup truck. “There’s a lot to be done here. But I can do the big things for you, and you’ll be able to sort out the smaller things if you’re confident enough.”
I saved every penny from my barista role at the café. I was extra polite to all my customers, hoping for large tips, ready to go straight into the motorcycle restoration fund.
Soon, my nights, weekends, and any and all free time I had were spent outside with the motorcycle. I tore it down and put it back together, better than ever, restoring old parts. I watched countless YouTube tutorials and read every manual I could find.
“What are you doing now?” my roommate, Brett, asked when I was hunched over my laptop on the couch.
“I’m looking at forums online for tips about the motorcycle,” I said.
“That’s all you do these days, buddy,” he said, chuckling.
Fourteen months later, the day finally came. I polished the last piece of chrome, stood back, and admired my work. The Harley gleamed under the garage lights, looking like it had just rolled off the assembly line.
“Good job, Seth,” I muttered to myself.
I could hardly contain my excitement as I thought about showing it to my parents, especially my dad. I imagined the pride on his face, the way his eyes would light up when he saw what I’d done.
I hoped that he would finally be proud of something I had done. But nothing prepared me for what was to come next.
I rode it over to my parents’ house, the engine purring beneath my legs like a big cat. As I parked in the driveway, I felt a rush of nerves. I hadn’t felt this anxious since I was waiting for my acceptance letter for college.
“Mom? Dad?” I called, walking into the hallway.
“We’re in the kitchen,” my mom called.
I walked into the kitchen, and there they were. My dad was drinking a cup of tea, and Mom was busy putting together a lasagna.
“I’ve got something to show you!” I said. “It’s outside.”
They followed me outside, their eyes going wide when they saw the motorcycle.
“Oh my gosh, Seth,” my dad exclaimed. “Is that the Harley? My old Harley? She looks beautiful!”
“Yes,” I said, grinning. “I’ve spent the last year working on it. What do you think?”
Before they could answer, my dad moved closer to the motorcycle. His eyes narrowed as he took it in. He ran his hands along the chrome as though he couldn’t believe his own eyes.
“You did all this?” he asked, his voice tight.
“I did!” I said, beaming proudly. “Every spare moment and extra cash went into this project. And now she’s perfect.”
For a second, I thought I saw pride flicker in his eyes, but then his expression changed. His face darkened, and I felt something change in me.
“You know, Seth,” he said slowly, “this bike is worth a hell of a lot more now. I think I was too generous when I gave it to you.”
I blinked, not understanding.
“What do you mean, Dad?”
My father cleared his throat, not meeting my eyes.
“I’m going to take it back,” he said, his tone final. “And I’ll give you $1,000 for your trouble.”
“Are you serious?” I asked, barely containing my anger.
He nodded.
“It’s only fair, Seth.”
I wanted to yell, to tell him how unfair he was being, how much time and money I’d poured into that bike. But I knew that arguing wouldn’t get me anywhere. My father was too stubborn.
“Sure,” I said. “Whatever you think is fair.”
He looked surprised that I didn’t fight him on it, but I wasn’t done with my revenge. If he wanted to play dirty, then fine. I could play that game too. I just needed to be smarter about it.
A few days later, I saw my father posting on social media about his “newly restored” motorcycle and that he was taking the Harley to an upcoming bike meet with his old biking buddies.
“Now it’s on,” I said to myself.
When the day of the meet arrived, I watched from a distance as my father rolled up on the Harley, looking every bit the proud owner of a beautiful bike. He revved the engine, drawing the attention of everyone in the parking lot.
But what he didn’t know was that I’d made a little modification of my own.
Under the seat, I’d installed a small switch—it was nothing fancy. But it was a precaution in case the Harley was ever stolen. The switch, when accessed, would cut off the fuel line with a quick flick of the remote, which was firmly planted in my hand.
I waited until he was right in the middle of the crowd, basking in the admiration, and then, from a distance, I pressed the button.
The Harley sputtered, the engine dying with a weak cough. Soon, my father’s smug grin disappeared as he tried to restart it, but the engine wouldn’t give.
The murmurs began, making their way through the crowd, and a few of his buddies laughed under their breath.
“Need a hand, Dad?” I asked when I made my way over to him.
He glared at me, but I could see the desperation in his eyes. He nodded, too embarrassed to say anything. I knelt down, pretending to fiddle with the bike for a moment before “fixing” the problem by turning off the switch.
The engine roared back to life, but by then, the damage was done.
The look of embarrassment on my dad’s face was worth every second of the work I had put into the Harley.
He handed me the keys, his jaw clenched tightly.
“It’s yours,” he said, walking away.
I smiled, knowing the Harley was mine, and so was my father’s respect, even if he couldn’t say it.
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