After a full day of writing, which began as inspired creativity and ended when more words just wouldn't come, I turned to the kitchen for a little fun. As you've perhaps already read, I planned to follow a Fine Cooking recipe for Chocolate Tart. After discovering a serious lack of ingredients, but substitutes for all, I reach into the refrigerator for the butter and milk.
The milk, which came in glass jars from our dairy farm, had been transferred to a gallon Tupperware container with an ill fitting lid. The jars were needed by the farmer due to a drought in containers, her not wanting to buy more, and us not wanting to pay for more. This may seem like too much information, but just wait, it does bear on the rest of the story. Also, it bears mentioning that we live in a one hundred-plus year old house and the floors are not level. Most anything that goes missing in the kitchen can be found under the stove as that's where the floor slants.
Back to reaching for the milk… I think you see where this is going. With the butter tucked at my elbow, and two hands on the ONE GALLON milk container. Which is full. Of milk. I move to shut the door. The container bangs on the door, falls to the floor in slow motion, tilts over… and suddenly milk is EVERYWHERE and making a downhill race for underneath the stove.
I throw the butter (which I still haven't found – maybe it's behind the stove), dive for ALL of the kitchen towels, plus the bathroom towels and the kitchen rug to stop the rushing river of milk. The good news is the kitchen floor is now gorgeously clean. Oh, and yes, E was kind enough to get the whole thing on film.
The kitchen, now much cleaner than before, is again ready for me to begin the tart. To make the shell, I reach for the flour. Hmm. No flour in the canister. Right. I bought some two days ago. Head to the pantry. Hmm. No flour. Right. As I play back in my head where the flour could be, I realize that I bought it but then left it at the store. Sigh.
Head to the store. Did I mention it's a blizzard outside, but never mind, I have to pick up the girls from a friend's house anyway.
Once at the store, I find the manager and tell her my story. She remembers. Because she's the one who put my flour back onto the shelf two days ago.
And this is why I love living in a small town.
The tart was worth it even though this wasn't the "fun" I imagined.
© 2008 Anne Mahle