Thursday, April 10, 2008

We just can't have nice things. Like kitchens.

The DNB stands in the bathroom door as I shower. "You need to take a look at me," he says in a voice that is too calm.

I peek out from behind the shower curtain and gasp. He is covered from head to toe in a red substance. "Oh my goodness, what happened? Are you okay?"

"Salsa," he says, still very calm. "You should avoid the kitchen for the next hour or so."

My eyes widen.

"I was just trying to get the chunks off the sides," he keeps saying, like he's suffering from PTSD. "I was whacking the salsa bottle on the counter and it just . . . exploded . . ."

He shuts the door and wanders back downstairs.

Later, we're preparing dinner when the DNB lets out a shout. I turn to see him pointing at the kitchen ceiling. It's so covered in salsa that I'm surprised it isn't dripping little diced pepper pieces on us.

Convinced there's more, I go all CSI on his ass and start evaluating angles.

"You would have had to absorb most of the impact standing here," I say, standing in front of the counter. "So the area immediately behind where you were should be clear. But that leaves the north and south quadrants yet to sweep . . ."

By the time we've examined the remainder of the kitchen, we've found salsa on the outside of my Uggs, on the inside of my snow boots, on the wall, on the calendar, on the cabinets across the room, and on the side of the dishwasher. And then, we noticed it: a streak of salsa on the side of the refrigerator away from the explosion.

"I don't know how you did it. But what happened here defies physics," I say with all the authority I can muster given that I actually know nothing about physics.

The DNB looks around, nodding silently.

1 comment:

Dana said...

Please tell me there are pictures.