When I was a kid, my
brothers, sisters, and I loved Christmas. The anticipation, the lights, the nearly
two weeks off from school was special. Life seemed so wonderful in those days
immediately before the big day. However, it was not so great for my dad. We
didn't know he had to pay for all of the stuff that showed up under the
Christmas tree. I never thought about what a bitch it was
to lug that big tree home, set it up, and then drag all the decorations down
from the attic crawl space. So at some point in the days before Christmas
something would set him off. Dad would blow his top and in his thunderous big
man voice, burst into a symphony of profanities. It could be a burned out string of
lights. It could be something that happened in traffic on his way home from
work. It could be me saying just the right thing in front of him. All I knew
was to get the hell out of the way. I'm not much different. I've had my
Christmas disasters that have turned me into a raving maniac. Disasters that
send me screaming every foul, nasty curse word I can muster at the top of my
lungs. One year in Florida it was an open window that allowed the tropical
breezes to topple Mark's beautifully decorated Christmas Tree.
I make my own yogurt. Every
eight days or so, I pour twenty four ounces of milk into the six hundred dollar
Vitamix blender that Mark made me buy for him one Christmas. Then I add my live
yogurt starter and blend it at the very lowest speed for a minute. It takes
about eighteen hours to cook and then you have yogurt at a third the cost of
buying it pre-made. Today was yogurt day. After pouring the milk and the live
yogurt starter into the blender, I turned to throw away the yogurt carton. At
which point some part of my body brushed against the blender and flipped the on/off
switch to on. In a panic I flipped the wrong switch and turned the speed up to
500,000 rpm blasting all the milk and yogurt straight up onto the cabinets, walls,
floor, and me. Immediately the dogs came running in to help clean up the mess.
Just as immediately they ran as I burst into my impression of my dad.
It took about an hour to
clean it all up. I think I got it all, but it's hard to tell. White milk, white
yogurt, white kitchen cabinets and counters. I may have missed some. I'm sure
I'll know if I did in a day or so. That's when the aroma of sour milk will make
it known.
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