Ah, gravity,” intoned Sheldon Cooper on The Big Bang Theory, “thou art a heartless bitch.”
Bravo! Encore! My sentiments exactly. Why hadn't I thought of it first? My usual cliché is, “The physical world hates me.”
It hates me!
If something can hit the kitchen floor, it will hit the kitchen floor. An oft' overlooked Law of Thermodynamics.
Spatulas. Silverware. Chefs knives. Random bits of food. A stack of my best plates. At any time during the cooking of a simple meal, three to five items will hit the floor in a dramatic splatter of hot grease.
Small wonder then that CweeCwee, my caninus omnivorous doxiepoo, loiters underfoot while I'm cooking. She knows she'll go away well-fed. (And everyone calls her stupid! Hmmph!)
And I have to admit, when the stack of plates tipped over and smashed, it was rather delightful. Vicariously, I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Take last night's meal for example. Mashed potatoes. Venison steaks marinated in a delicious hot pepper sauce. Simple and elegant.
Yet during the entire process, my meat-flipping spatula teetered on the edge of doom. Once it threatened to fall, and twice it teetered. The third time hit the floor in a dramatic spray of hot butter and marinade. Instantly, the lid of the potato kettle also hit the floor.
About this time, I found myself screeching, “Michael! Does everyone have problems with the damn physical world or is just me!?!”
“It's just you,” he responded, grinning. “Who needs comedy!?! You're a riot in the kitchen.”
Oh, it got better as the meal progressed.
Irritably, I dished up dinner, skirting the mess, reasoning that a little food in the tummy would calm my nerves before tackling the clean-up. But, unfortunately, I also have a memory like a sieve. Did I forget the mess? You betcha! Waltzed into the kitchen for the sour cream...and instantly stuck to the marinated floor!
I blamed it all on the dogs. If they'd cleaned it up like decent self-respecting mutts, this wouldn't have happened.
By this time, Michael was almost choking on his steak in glee. But I bit my lip, prepared a nice soapy rag and had that greasy mess slicked up in no time at all.
Story over? Not by a long shot.
After finishing our dinners, I gathered the dog-licked plates and again waltzed into the kitchen. Woop! Slipped on the now treacherously clean floor, reeled, regained my balance...but the plates did not. They hit the floor! Michael was crimson from laughing. Sprawled in his chair, busting a gut.
And the moral of that story is...who needs a comedy club when your wife is doing slapstick in the kitchen!?!
Image courtesy of debspoons at FreeDigitalPhotos.net