Our weather has been so crazy in Houston lately. There’ve been days when I wake up and turn up the heat because the house is so cold. By mid afternoon, I have to switch to air conditioning because it’s hot. That night, a cold front will move in behind rain, and it’s back to the heater. Houston has multiple weather personality disorder.
Friday morning was gorgeous, but I’d checked my weather app and knew it was predicted to cloud up later and possibly rain. Since I wanted to grill burgers for Craft Night, I did it early in the day.
As I was coming through the back door, plate of burgers and spatula in hand, I flashed back to the March when my mother was in New Jersey with Debby for Josh’s birth. My pal Rhonda F–the one who pierced my ears during that same time (something my mother had forbidden, mwahaha)–was over at our house. Daddy was grilling burgers. Whenever he manned the grill, we had to keep an eye on him because he tended to burn things. But on this day, he took the burgers off at just the right time. As he was coming through the back door, the plate tilted, burgers slid from it to the floor, and he blasted, “Shit. SHIT. SHIT!” Since Rhonda knew him best as her assistant principal, this was very shocking to her. Not to me, though. I just whipped those things back onto the plate after giving them a cursory inspection, knowing that my mother LITERALLY had a kitchen floor so clean you could eat off of it.
That would not have been true in my house had that happened to me on Friday; I’m not the housekeeper Dorothy was. But don’t worry, Tom, Tim, Current Day Rhonda, and Lindsey. Your burgers suffered no mishaps at any step along the way.
You may not be a domestic goddess of Dorothy’s standard, but the real problem would be the pack of hell hounds that fall on any floor food.
True–I’d never get the chance to pick it up.
Mlle. Renee would have just shouted mine … mine … snarf!
As Snoopy once said, “Anything that hits the floor is legally mine.”
A little additional roughage never did anyone any harm.
As my mother’s mother used to say, “You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die.”
That JUST happened to me today with my toasted ham sandwich – it slid off the plate and exploded all over the floor. My language was a teensy bit more colourful, though – I was HUNGRY! Grrr…
RIP, ham sandwich. Not much you can do after that except start over–and when you’re already hungry… or “hongry!” as we Southerners say–that’s torment.