The Glove of Love

Ron and I were clearing up after dinner recently, and I made the mistake of bending over to put some dishes in the dishwasher. WHACK! I felt a sting on my bottom, then another, then a flurry of them. They weren't especially painful but I did feel some discomfort.

I straightened up, turned around and looked at Ron who had an innocent look on his face and nothing in his hands.

"What did you swat me with?" I asked. It hadn't felt familiar.

"This," he pointed to the gloves that sat on the counter. He had used them to remove his delicious homemade scalloped potatoes from the oven half ah hour earlier. "The Love Glove."

Yeah, I guess that is his way of expressing love, and I'm glad of it. But for those of you who aren't familiar with this handy kitchen aid, did you know that Ove Gloves are made of 86% Nomex, which is a flame resistant material developed by DuPont in the 60's and used by fire fighters the world over. The other 14% is Kevlar. Yes, the stuff used to make body armour!

The glove is soft and flexible, and the non-slip ridges might or might not have added to its effectiveness; I'm not sure. But it's one heavy-duty spanking implement!

Beat it

Last night we enjoyed some homemade pickled beets with dinner. Between us we managed to finish the jar, leaving only some pieces of onion floating in the tangy red liquid.

As we cleared the table, Ron grabbed the jar and announced that he would dump the contents down the drain. He knew this would annoy me because I am a fervent composter.

"No, it goes into the green bin." I carefully strained out the solid vegetable matter, then bent over the compost bucket and coaxed the pieces out of the jar.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Ron decided to administer an impromptu paddling while I was in the appropriate position.

"Beats, beets. Get it?" he chortled, as his hand warmed my bottom.

"Yes, I - ouch! - get it. Very funny."

You've gotta love a man who enjoys his homonyms. But I think that tomorrow we'll have bread and butter pickles with dinner.

Sneak Attack

 








The other day, after Ron and I had finished dinner and cleared the table, we and the dogs headed for the family room. Fluffy and Fang were excited; they would be getting their evening biscuits before we all settled in to watch TV. Fang was tucked under my arm as I led the way, and Fluffy danced around us in anticipation while Ron brought up the rear.

Whack!

Ron had made a sneak attack on my bottom. My right cheek throbbed. We heard the clatter of toenails on the tile floor as Fluffy scrambled out of the room to get away from the noise. Fang remained unconcerned, his mind on the impending treats.

"You scared him," I chuckled. Then I reached back with my free hand, rubbed my sore cheek, then contemplated its untouched mate.

"Scare him again."

Whack!

The second smack hurt much more than the first one, but I was happy. I like everything to be even.

When too many cooks spoil the broth

They need to be spanked! Here are some would-be chefs who are being very naughty in the kitchen.




Those shoes don't look suitable for spending hours on your feet in the kitchen.





Flour the buns well before rolling them out.




Did you notice? I thought not.






Happy Friday!