More Tales From the Kitchen . .

Broken: Splintered; fractured; burst, etc.; violated.

I am . . . ahem . . . not coordinated. I am not coordinated in any part of my body or being. My brain sends along perfectly reasonable commands to my various body parts to no avail. Well, technically to some avail, I guess, but from time to time no avail is forthcoming. I drop things. I miss when I grab for something or misjudge clearance and distance.

Things get broken. All of the time.

This situation is compounded by the fact that I'm usually trying to do 10 things at once while thinking about 10 totally different things, and I'm in a hurry. Time is short.

Sometimes nice things get broken, or bent.

SuperK used to get upset when something died a violent death at my hands. I feel bad enough as it is -- I'm not breaking things on purpose, usually -- and having someone criticize me openly or express some obvious disapproval made my regret more acute. Being a big fan of the philosophy that "The best defense is a good offense" I'd point out that she didn't handle nearly as many dishes as I did, not being a kitchen person and all so she didn't have nearly as many opportunities to break things as I did. This is probably not true, but whatever.

I don't like to lose arguments or games or contests and I'm perfectly willing to blow up the world if I can only win. Big fights erupted over unimportant things.

Eventually we realized that it would be best just to handle the emergency. Now when something breaks loudly SuperK shouts: "What do I need to do?" I suggest that I've got it handled or yell: "Towel!" or "Broom!" or "Ambulance!!"

We mop up the blood or pop or dirt, throw away the debris, and get on with our day.