I hate the kitchen. I break out in hives if I have to get ice out of the freezer for drinks. But the kitchen hates me even more. Like a good southern woman I was boiling water to make iced tea (we're crazy and proud) and the pan burnt my water. To this day I haven't figured that one out.
One year my partner's family was over for Christmas and she decided to make a huge breakfast. She decided to take her life (and that of her kin) into her hands and asked me to make the biscuits. Out of a can. After getting the calamine lotion for the hives and slathering myself from head to toe I said yes.
So the pink Butch enters the kitchen reads the directions and decides "I can do this." So I preheated the oven to 350 degrees, got a nonstick pan, broke open the can, put biscuits exactly 2 inches apart and popped them into preheated oven. I was very proud of myself . I even remembered to wash my hands so the dough wouldn't have pink all over them. Set the timer for 12 minutes. At exactly 12 minutes I checked the biscuits and they looked a little too white. So I counted "1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi" etc. until I got to 60. Checked again. Beginning to look good at this point. "1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi" etc.
Quick slather of pink stuff, wash hands quickly, "60 Mississippi" and viola them hunks of dough are brown. I take them out of oven, remove one and put it on the plate and heard a terrible sound of rending ceramic. I look around the kitchen and wondered "What the hell was that?" Turn back around and the plate is broken. Go figure. At this point I have not touched the little round doughboys from hell. Frankly I was scared . I figured they haven't exploded let's not tempt fate.
So in comes my Great Dane and I decide to sneak her a biscuit. Actually I figured if she lived it would be safe to give them to my partner's kin (I do kinda like them). As you know Great Danes are rather large dogs. My girl (LuLu was her name) was 225 pounds. Popping a biscuit into her mouth was like watching a Rolaids disappear. Until she spit it back out and hit my kneecap and I heard the snap of cartilage. Mine to be exact.
As I am rolling around the kitchen floor clutching my knee and screaming like a girl (ewwww) everybody runs to the kitchen to see what that strange noise is. Of course I must uphold the images of Butches everywhere and I begin to laugh. Of course, seeing a pink blob rolling around the kitchen floor is kinda funny. Until my partner screams "Are you trying to kill the dog?" You see, LuLu was spitting for all she's worth and from a Dane that's an awful lot of spittle. I thought I was going to have to call Service Master for a water extraction.
Needless to say breakfast was biscuitless. My partner kissed my knee and made it all better and the dog finally quit spitting and pawing her face by New Year's day. My dog forgave me by my birthday...in May.
So my partner put a gate up in the doorway to the kitchen. I can't get under it and I need a ladder to get over it. Did I mention she put a lock on it and has hidden the key?
I've lost a lot of weight in seven years.
Sandy
I want to thank Sandy for sharing her story. One can only be glad that others didn't have a camera handy as they walked into that kitchen. Memories in the head will have to be enough.
Okay now who's next? Join the fun and send us your story.
Now on to the updates. Enjoy.
Elisa
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