View from the Cottage

Klutz in the Kitchen

May 16, 2016

I distinguished myself in the kitchen the last couple of days. Yesterday, I let an iron skillet sit on a warm burner to dry—only it was on a high burner. By the time I smelled it at the other end of the house, the skillet was pretty much ruined, and I will order a new one.

This morning, I hand washed the glassware left from yesterday—and managed to reach for a towel and knock one of the small carafes onto my unforgiving stone floor. Glass shattered though not in too wide a range—couldn’t find the dust pan until I unloaded the whole utility closet. Not a happy camper.

At noon, trying to open a box of wine—don’t judge!—I got into a fight with the spigot and got wine all over the floor. Threw a junk towel over it to soak it up, which proved to be a good move because a few minutes later I took a box of blueberries—most of them eaten and the few left wrinkled enough that I knew they’d be sour—out of the fridge and set it on the counter. Somehow, maybe in putting the box of wine in the fridge, I dumped the blueberries on the kitchen floor—and stomped some before I realized it. But as luck would have it, most of them landed on the towel I’d put down, so I picked up the others, threw them on the towel, and emptied the whole thing into the sink. From there I took them to the trash. I was about through with the kitchen for the day.

But tonight I redeemed myself with the one-person meal I cooked. Linguine with brown butter, sage and Parmesan. Honestly, I couldn’t taste the sage but the brown butter and Parmesan combination was wonderful. I’ll do that again, maybe with more sage since my plant seems to be flourishing. Really good supper.

Maybe I’ll venture into the kitchen again, but not tomorrow. I have lunch and dinner plans, providing the weather cooperates. Storms are predicted. Spring in Texas is always unpredictable but more so this year. Yet we should feel blessed—I heard from people in the Northeast who woke to temperatures in the 40s and 50s.

A wild thought just occurred to me. Fifty-two years ago today I married Joel Alter, the father of our adoptive children. We divorced in 1981 or 1982, and he died three and a half years ago. I felt sad when he died because I remembered the good Joel I married and not the man he became, but no regrets. I’ve had a good life, raised four children as a single parent, forged a career for myself—all things I wouldn’t have done if I were still married to him. And the kids turned out to be wonderful people—another outcome I’m not sure about if he’d still been involved. The Lord looks out for us in various ways.