I periodically like to cook and sometimes what I cook is fit for human consumption. What I am in the kitchen, however, is safe. I’m a safe cook. I don’t lick knives, I don’t touch hot surfaces and I don’t smell things that have lingered in the back of the fridge for too long. Crazy, I know.
In an attempt to win a Darwin Award tonight, the highest degree-holder in our home decided to aid the blender in its blending responsibilities with a fork.
Yes, a fork.
I didn’t realize that’s what was going on until the blender belched a mass of whipped cauliflower (think plumes of volcanic ash) throughout our kitchen and straight into the perpetrator’s face.
Santa came early this year.
Not only was our dinner being worn (head to toe, I swear), but it had coated a wall of the fridge, the inside of a cabinet door, the counter, the floor and the ceiling.
“Why,” I asked, “was the lid off the blender?”
“Because,” I was told, “how else was the fork supposed to get in?”
A FORK?!
I didn’t ask and I don’t want to know.
The important thing is the fork found its way to the sink without piercing human flesh and the brains behind the blender sat down after mopping up the mess.
Unless I become more domestic, and fast, we should never, ever procreate.
What I'm reading: Carl Hiaasen's Hoot
What I'm eating: cashews
