Out of the Frying Pan...

Mark cooks, I clean. Mark makes an awful mess in the kitchen and produces great meals, I clean that mess and eat the great meals. Saturday evening was no exception. We had fried fish, fried zucchini cakes, and fried salad. I assume the salad was fried because everything else on my plate was. Even though it was Saturday and I planned on going out for a few cocktails, I did a quick cleanup of the kitchen first. I threw the dishes into the dishwasher, and wiped down the counters. On the stove was a large frying pan with about a half inch of oil in it. But because the oil was still hot, I put a lid on it and left it for later.

Sunday morning dawned bright, sunny, and cheery. Birds were singing, I felt great (no hangover), and all was good in my world. So I bounced up out of bed, walked the dogs, watched a little television, and then decided that it was a good day for waffles. I would make strawberry waffles. Not to brag, but I make some damn good waffles. Crisp on the outside and tender and flavorful on the inside. I had just one thing between me and those waffles, last night's frying pan. There it was still on the stove, waiting to be scrubbed and put away. So I reached over and grabbed the frying pan. That's when my perfect Sunday morning turned to shit. Between the time I decided the frying pan needed to be cleaned, and the time I actually grabbed it off the stove, I forgot that it had  half an inch of oil in it. In slow motion I saw the oil jump out of the frying pan and slop all over everything. There was oil on the floor, oil on the cabinets, and oil on my shirt, shorts, and shoes. I believe that yesterday morning I set a new record for saying the 'F' word consecutively. Needless to say, there were no waffles Sunday morning. There were no strawberries, there were no birds singing, no sun shining, only the 'F' word floating gently off into the morning breeze.