the knives and the Ghosts

First I remember the gifts given to the three of us, and the three of us were still children.  Three butter knives with different color-tinted clear plastic handles, each having a blade designed to neither cut or stab.  Sister got the pink handled one, my brother got the blue, and I was left with the red handled one, which I was disappointed about.  My mother told us to take our knives, the bread, the butter and the jam to the campfire.  There we sat, toasting bread slowly, which were dinner rolls shoved on the ends of sticks.  I remembered a short story or a rhyme I had read in elementary school, but I only remembered one line of it, and it was being repeated in my head as I watched the fire crackling and tended to my toasting.  The line went "We three ghostesses, eating our buttered toastesses...", over and over, adding fuel to my agitation originally started from not getting the blue knife.  I took my red knife behind my back and pressed it into the rock I sat on, until it broke.  I pretended to bitch about it and, to my satisfaction, my brother was forced to share the coveted blue knife with me.  We passed the knife between us and it became slick and sticky at the same time, messy from both butter and jam.  In the end, we had to help our little sister butter and jam her toast with the blue knife as well, as she was still uncoordinated and had dropped her pink knife in the dirt.  That's all I remember.