How Not to Cook

So I come home from the grocery store, through the rain, and start putting away the groceries. I keep a chicken breast out for myself for lunch. Feeling inspired I melt a couple of tablespoons of butter, add some slivered almonds and another spoonful of liverwurst. I am going to add pepper but the grinder is nearly empty.

So I pull the peppercorns off the shelf, refill the grinder, stuff the bag of peppercorns under my armpit, and then step over to the pot to grind in some pepper. However the bag of pepper slips out and spills across the floor.

Apparently peppercorns are nature’s answer to ball bearings. I slip on one foot, and my upper arm bangs the pot handle, firing the contents across the floor like a traction trebuchet.

At this point I am on hands and knees on the kitchen floor, cursing like a trucker with a case of clap. I attempt to stand and once more go tail over teakettle to the floor.

I vacuum the floor. Wash it. Wash it again – Damn all butter to hell! – Barbecue the chicken, and have a nature’s all purpose antidepressent: a martini.

Some days are better spent in bed.