We call it Forcula. You Call it Wishbone

Have you ever met someone who--upon opening his/her mouth--you thought to yourself was full of sh*t? And the formation of that opinion was based on the fact that the person spoke your language but didn't speak your truth.
When I was in graduate school, I met a Latin woman who announced that she was Puerto Rican from New York City. The declaration was gratuitous since I could tell her pedigree from the moment she uttered her first sentence. She then went on to say that she had a connection with all things and people of the Latin world. I had never known this to be the case.
Each island, or landlocked country, or republic had its own blends. There were multi-racial societies such as the Boricua of Puerto Rico. There were the Caucasian Europeans who lived in places like Argentina or Chile. There were Afro-Caribbeans from Cuba. Oh, and don't forget the Japanese from Peru. To a white boy such as I who refers to himself as > 95% Ashkenazi(c) or sometimes as Litvak.
During the course of our studies, we had the opportunity to work on projects together. She lived near campus and would invite me over (along with other classmates). She prepared meals from 'things' she had grabbed from the refrigerator. Everything seemed so random; raw chicken, butter, cooked beans, cooked rice, open bottles of wine. Then she'd go to cupboards for oil from under the sink, flour, starch, corn meal. She'd whisk, fry, bake, and steam all at once.
She trusted me enough to make the coffee.
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She used the chorreador which actually is a Pan-American coffee maker. It's like the percolator of the South-of-the-Border world.
Her home seemed to be decorated with generic and personal touches. She had old black and white photos of her parents (presumably at a supper club), pictures of a little boy (presumably a close family member), and a few figurines (mostly angels). However, there was one thing that stood out.
She had a dish with three wishbones in the living room.
She saw me looking at her personal touches (i.e., my casing the joint).
"Feel free to ask questions," she said, "my life's an open book."
So, in my gringo accent, I asked, " ¿ si eres bruja ? "
That sure caught her off guard. "WTF are you looking at?" she asked.
I pointed to the wishbones. She laughed. Oh yeah, I like to collect them when they're intact. You never know when you're going to need one.
I told her that I had some too. But mine were kept in the kitchen, on the sink, in a bar soap dish with a lid. Hers were in the living room. Hers were part of the family collection of photos. Hers were cast among the family forces as part of an altar. There was even a candle that I hadn't included in the observation because... well... lots of folks have candles.
She told me that she was. She told me that it's on her mother's side. Mother could read coffee grinds. Mother sometimes didn't even need the grinds. Mother could pick up energy from people around her. Her mother was spot on in most instances. The only time the energy readings were off were when she needed to sense something from the children she had biologically produced. They had natural blocking agents. But her mother could read her children the old-fashioned way... by observing and judging the behavior of each one and determining which ones were self-serving and which ones were destined for greatness.
Over the years, I've collected forculae (the plural of forcula). I even have two from turkeys. I plan on sending them her way one fine day.
I don't practice magic. I recognize it and I appreciate it. I've been told that I have the gift, but I have no idea how it works or why it happens. It seems so random to me that I never think of it as something worthy of cultivating. Oh, and not mention, if you talk about it to the 'wrong' people, you run the risk of being labelled weird or whacko.
Call it what you will, but wishbones are as valid an instrument as a wand, or a candle, or a card, or a besom.