The house must be like, mad at me or something.
Or, I’m finally going to admit I lack the ability to anticipate cause and effect.
I’m going with the former.
No sense in beating around the bush…never been very good at it anyway…
I burned Tim’s fingers last night with hot sugar water.
Exactly. The house hates me.
NOTE TO SELF: “Oops” is not the correct response when you’ve managed to melt skin off someone’s hand WITHOUT EVEN TOUCHING THEM.
You know, it’s not my fault I wasn’t given a tutorial on how to use all of the “appliances” in the kitchen.
And when I say “appliances” I mean basters.
And when I say basters I mean this one:
We may as well call it a bastard. Stupid thing got me in trouble.
See, it all started when I was microwaving a mixture of water and sugar to put on a peach crisp that I was baking. I was convinced the peaches would not produce enough “juice” and would instead be all dry and hard (here’s the recipe).
Yes, I WAS BAKING.
SOMEONE WRITE THIS DOWN.
Anyhow, the microwave started to make these clicky noises and Tim was all, “WHAT DID YOU PUT IN THERE?!”
Me: “A measuring cup.”
Tim: “A WHAT?!”
He thought I meant like, the metal kind that makes microwaves explode and rushed over to take it out.
As he was climbing over the baby gate (we have to contort all cirque du soleil to get in and out of the kitchen. Thanks, Lexi), I’m all nonchalant like, “The glass kind. Geez, dude. Put your pants back on.”
Tim: “I thought you meant…whatever…DUDE.”
He decides to take precautionary measures, stops the microwave and removes my boiling concoction.
I didn’t want him taking over my little project, so I rocketed over the gate and grabbed a baster out of the utensil jar.
Tim stood there, watching me and questioning my motives (technically, dear husband, that was really your first mistake. Whenever I’m in the kitchen, you’re supposed to duck and cover).
I opened the oven and then sucked up some of the hot sugar water in the baster. Tim was on my right, the oven on the left and the hot liquid between Tim and I on the counter.
As I start to lift the baster from the measuring cup to put the liquid on the crisp, Tim goes, “You can’t do that. You have to get closer.”
Ok, people. Let’s just stop. Right there. Mistake number two.
IF THERE ARE DIRECTIONS TO BE FOLLOWED, I NEED THEM WELL BEFORE I TAKE ANY SORT OF ACTION.
I have a problem with patience and I also tend to take instructions literally.
I thought he meant that I HAVE TO GET CLOSER, so I bend my legs and get lower to the ground to get closer to the crisp sitting in the oven.
As an inadvertent side effect of my body movement, the baster went from a vertical position to a horizontal one, squirty end towards Tim, who was still standing there all, “NOT YOU! THE CRISP! TAKE IT OUT!”
HOLY SHIT WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU DAMMIT DAMMIT MY FINGER DAMMIT!!!!
No one explained to me that basters are stupid.
That basters don’t HOLD THE LIQUID INSIDE until squeezed.
When you turn the damn thing landscape direction it’s like you’ve unlocked a secret weapon.
Landscape direction equals ALL CONTAINED CONTENTS will rocket out with shocking velocity without any pressure on the little squeezy end.
As Tim was screaming and getting his fingers burned off, I just sat there, staring down at the baster all, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS THING? IT’S BROKEN.”
No, not broken.