When Kitchens Attack
I read all my usual blogs and posts this morning and came to the dull conclusion that I'm having a writer's drought or my life is very boring.
So, let's see if I can come up with some semblance of evidence that my life has luster.
Proof that Steve is not allowed in the Kitchen: Steve called me from work and asked "What does it mean when it says "to cream"?"
....................*I'm biting my lip because I only know 2 meanings for CREAM. One being for cooking/baking."
After we straightened what type of meaning Steve was searching for came home and began his quest for making his first Banana Bread.
I am injured this past week, so I opted to let him brave the obstacles of the kitchen and the world of baking solo. I was within shouting distance (just to make sure he didn't kill himself) and fielded questions like "Where is the bread pan? Cooling racks? Do we have baking soda?" All of these were easy and were mildly amusing.
Then he walked around the corner holding his hand and asked "Do you have any band-aids?" I nearly lost it, I had to clenched my jaw to hold back the laughter. Even though Steve had won the war (Successful Banana Bread), he had lost a battle and came away wounded. The kitchen had fought back. It had retaliated against the large man in tennis shoes that came in there thinking that the kitchen would bend to his will. He forgot that those few square feet of our apartment contain a large quantity of potentially deadly weapons that demand respect.
Respect thy kitchen or it will not respect you back.
So, let's see if I can come up with some semblance of evidence that my life has luster.
Proof that Steve is not allowed in the Kitchen: Steve called me from work and asked "What does it mean when it says "to cream"?"
....................*I'm biting my lip because I only know 2 meanings for CREAM. One being for cooking/baking."
After we straightened what type of meaning Steve was searching for came home and began his quest for making his first Banana Bread.
I am injured this past week, so I opted to let him brave the obstacles of the kitchen and the world of baking solo. I was within shouting distance (just to make sure he didn't kill himself) and fielded questions like "Where is the bread pan? Cooling racks? Do we have baking soda?" All of these were easy and were mildly amusing.
Then he walked around the corner holding his hand and asked "Do you have any band-aids?" I nearly lost it, I had to clenched my jaw to hold back the laughter. Even though Steve had won the war (Successful Banana Bread), he had lost a battle and came away wounded. The kitchen had fought back. It had retaliated against the large man in tennis shoes that came in there thinking that the kitchen would bend to his will. He forgot that those few square feet of our apartment contain a large quantity of potentially deadly weapons that demand respect.
Respect thy kitchen or it will not respect you back.