If you’ve ever explored your grandparents’ house, you’ve probably found some strange items that left you puzzled.
Recently, someone online shared a photo of some metal tools that, if it weren’t for the nut-shaped bowl they’re in, could be mistaken for tiny weapons.
People online quickly started guessing what these odd tools were for, with one person even joking that they might be used to “find cavities.” Curious to know more about this mysterious tool? Keep reading!
Most of us have heard of a nutcracker—not the ballet with the Sugar Plum Fairy, but the metal tool used to crack open nuts.
A nutcracker looks like pliers and usually has two metal arms with a hinge at the top. The arms are often serrated to grip the nut better. You place the nut in the jaws of the nutcracker, squeeze the arms together, and the shell cracks open, revealing the nut inside.
Nutcrackers come in all sorts of designs and sizes, from simple handheld ones to fancy, decorative pieces.
Some are made for specific types of nuts, while others can handle a variety of nuts and even shellfish like lobster or crab.
Getting the nut out of its hard shell isn’t always easy. After cracking the shell, you still have to deal with the meat sticking to the tough walls inside.
That’s where a nut pick comes in, which is the tool that’s confusing people online.
Nut picks come in different styles and materials, like metal, wood, or plastic. Some even have fancy handles or are designed to be comfortable to use.
They’re useful for enjoying all kinds of nuts, such as walnuts, pecans, and almonds, where you need to get the edible part out of the shell.
People online have been sharing their experiences with these versatile tools.
One person remembered the hard work of cracking nuts in the past, saying, “We used them for walnuts. Back then, you didn’t buy pre-cracked walnuts for baking; you had to crack them open yourself.”
Another user shared, “We used them for walnuts, pecans, and more. They came with the nutcracker and were also great for getting lobster out of those tiny legs.”
Someone else mentioned, “They’re crab and lobster meat picks. I’m lucky to still have my family’s set. Growing up near Maine, we had lots of chances to use them!”
Another person added that she’s found multiple uses for the pick, saying, “I’ve used them for their intended purpose, but as an artist, I’ve also found other ways to use them.”
Others had different ideas. One user said, “They’re called olive picks, but you can use them for other things, so your hands don’t touch the food.” Another joked, “Mostly used to pick your teeth after a big dinner… also handy for finding cavities!”
What are your favorite memories of using nutcrackers and picks?
Share your thoughts in the comments and spread the word so we can hear from others too!
Our Landlady Threw Us Out to Give the Upgraded Apartment to Her Sister — But Fate Quickly Taught Her a Harsh Lesson 5 days ago
It was like the ground had been ripped out from under me. I could barely speak, barely think. Chris, who had been listening in, immediately took the phone from me, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.
“Mrs. Johnson, there has to be another way,” he pleaded, trying to keep his voice steady. “We’ve put so much into this place. It’s our home.”
“I know, I know,” Mrs. Johnson replied, sounding genuinely sorry, “but Lisa’s family. She’s all I have left, and she’s in such a desperate situation… I can’t turn her away.”
What could we do? She’d made up her mind, and no amount of pleading was going to change that.
The next few weeks were a blur of packing boxes, canceled subscriptions, and trying not to break down every time I walked past a spot we’d lovingly restored.
The hardest part was leaving behind the memories we’d woven into every inch of that apartment—the late-night painting sessions, the laughter, the quiet moments of contentment.
Our new place was… well, it was a roof over our heads, and that was about all I could say for it.
It was smaller, darker, and lacked any of the charm that had made our old apartment so special. But Chris and I did what we always did—we made the best of it. We hung our pictures, arranged our furniture, and tried to pretend that everything was okay.
It wasn’t.
A few weeks after the move, I ran into Mrs. Patterson, one of our old neighbors, at the grocery store. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, but then she dropped a bombshell that left me reeling.
“Lisa’s been telling everyone how thrilled she is with the renovations in your old place. Said it was like moving into a brand-new apartment!”
My blood ran cold. Thrilled with the renovations? Wasn’t she supposed to be too distraught to care? Something didn’t add up, and I wasn’t about to let it slide.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing, replaying every conversation, every detail. There had to be more to this story, and I was determined to find out what it was.
Over the next few days, I started digging. I talked to a few other neighbors, asked some subtle questions, and pieced together a picture that made my blood boil.
Lisa hadn’t lost her job or her apartment. She’d manipulated Mrs. Johnson, using her sister’s kindness to get her hands on our beautifully renovated space. She hadn’t lifted a finger, but she’d swooped in and stolen the fruits of our hard work.
When I confronted Chris with what I’d found, he was furious—just as I’d expected.
We’d been used, betrayed by people we thought we could trust. Everything we’d built, everything we’d cherished, had been taken from us in the most underhanded way possible.
As we sat in our new, unremarkable living room, the weight of it all pressed down on us like a suffocating blanket. We were angry, yes, but more than that, we were heartbroken.
And it only got worse.
You ever hear something so downright ridiculous, that you just have to laugh? That was me and Chris when we first heard what Lisa had done to our old place.
I mean, you couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried. But there it was, delivered straight to us by the neighborhood’s most reliable source of gossip—Mrs. Thompson, who, bless her heart, couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.
We were at the grocery store, of all places, when we ran into her.
“Judith! Chris!” she said, her voice tinged with that mix of excitement and pity that only someone like her could pull off. “You’ll never believe what Lisa’s done with your old apartment!”
My stomach dropped. I’d been trying so hard to move on, to not think about that place, but here she was, ready to spill the latest. I couldn’t stop myself from asking, though. It was like picking at a scab you know you should leave alone.
Chris, beside me, stiffened, his jaw tightening just the slightest bit. He knew whatever was coming wouldn’t be good.
Mrs. Thompson leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s turned your beautiful kitchen into a metal workshop! Welding and all sorts of things, can you believe it?”
For a second, I thought I hadn’t heard her right. A metal workshop? In our kitchen?
Chris let out a low, bitter laugh, shaking his head. He looked at me, his eyes dark with anger, but also something else—a strange, grim amusement. “Well, isn’t that just perfect?”
My mind was reeling, trying to picture the damage.
It was infuriating, but there was something almost… poetic about it, too. She wanted our place so badly, and now she was destroying it piece by piece.
Mrs. Thompson, bless her, was still talking. “Mrs. Johnson’s beside herself, poor thing. She tried to get Lisa to leave, but you know how family is. Lisa won’t budge.”
Later that night, Chris and I sat on the couch watching TV. We hadn’t said much since the grocery store, both of us lost in our thoughts. Finally, I broke the silence.
“Do you think she’s ruining it on purpose?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Chris sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Who knows? Maybe she’s just that careless, or maybe she’s trying to wipe away any trace of us. Either way, it’s out of our hands now.”
I nodded, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
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