FAIL

18 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

I don’t get it. I answered yes to “Reacts with pleasure and delight to marital congress.” Isn’t that all a man really wants in a wife?

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Domestic Bliss

Technorati Tags: Flight Of The Conchords

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Guest Blog: Smokey the Muffin

When I was a little kid, my favorite show on TV was Emergency 51. It had these two firemen who ran around in a little firetruck and did paramedic good deeds every week. These guys would get on the radio and talk to Rampart Hospital and save lives.

Those guys should have been at our house today to treat us for smoke inhalation.

So it’s Saturday - our typical chore day. I’m planning on grocery shopping and my beloved will go out for a few hours before she starts doing the laundry. But first we need to eat breakfast. Since I want to get an early start, my beloved says she will cook eggs and english muffins while I get ready.

I’m in the shower when I start to smell it. Smoke. Then the upstairs smoke detector starts to howl. Not too unusual when my sweetie practices the domestic arts, but enough to get me to turn off the water and grab a towel.

Then the downstairs detectors start going off, one after the other. Then the house security alarm starts up, all in the time it takes to wrap a towel around me. I open the door and the smoke billows in. A whole goddamn bunch of smoke. The fucking house must be on fire!

I peer down the stairs and I can barely make out my love standing down in the grey hazy smoke.

“I burned your muffin.”

Well, we rush around pushing the cutoffs for the smoke detectors (we have smoke detectors with shut-offs, see paragraph three, line four). We yell at each other. My cranky beloved has a bellyfull of my pissiness and vacates the disaster area while I open the windows and get all the fans going. Then I find the muffin.

It wasn’t in the toaster. It was in the microwave. I open the door and a cloud of smoke puffs out, which is a pretty neat trick considering the air outside the microwave is also 99% smoke. A sour, stinky, grey smoke that comes from food burned to cinders.

The glass tray inside the microwave has a black slick of melted muffin on it. How hot does a muffin have to be before it melts? Jeezus!

That’s when I see the timer on the microwave. The poor fucker still had another 10 blistering minutes to go when my love popped the door open and released the fumes.

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The Domestic Goddess Makes Freezer Jam

“Your blackberries are moldy,” says Kevin. “You need to do something with them today.” He stands at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for the evening’s fajita dinner.

“They’re not that moldy.” Uppity lifts the open container of blackberries to her nose.

“Whatever,” says Kevin. “But you need to make your jam or throw them away.”

Uppity sniffs again.

“You’re staring at those blackberries like they’re going to get better,” Kevin says.

“I’m trying to figure out if they’re edible. Would you be grossed out if I just scraped the mold off?”

“Not really,” says Kevin unconvincingly. “But you need to make your freezer jam today.”

“Ok, ok,” says Uppity, “I’ll make it now.” She starts to pick moldy berries off the top and toss them into the sink. “But you better eat this jam.”

She grabs a pot from the shelf.

“That’s not big enough,” says Kevin. “You need the big pot.”

The big pot is in use, holding leftovers in the fridge. Uppity sighs, pulls it out, and sets it on the counter. She gets down on the floor in front of a cabinet and starts to rummage in it.

“We don’t have any containers,” she announces.

Kevin puts down the knife he’s now using to slice chicken. “Use these,” he says, opening the dishwasher and peering inside. “Are these clean? I don’t think they’re clean.”  He pulls out some plastic containers and sets them on the edge of the sink.

Uppity continues digging in the cabinet, finds some containers, and starts spooning leftovers into them. When the big pot is empty, she washes it, sets it on the stove, and consults the recipe that’s stuck to the fridge.

“We don’t have any juice,” she says.

Kevin puts down the knife again and goes over to the wine rack. He pulls out a bottle of Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider left over from last Christmas and reads the ingredients aloud.

“Juice…sugar…cocksucker!” He runs to the sink as the bottle he’s opened threatens to burble over. “Here. The only thing that separates this from juice is bubbles.”

Uppity snorts but takes the bottle. She consults the recipe again. “One and three-quarter cups juice,” she reads, and pours the sparkling cider into a measuring cup and then into the pot. She opens a packet of pectin and adds it to the mixture, which foams ominously.

“I think we are making exploding freezer jam,” she says.

Kevin stares at his chicken. “This is why we could never run a restaurant.”

“We could,” says Uppity, mashing blackberries in their bowl, “as long as we didn’t try to actually do any work together.” She pauses. “Besides, you don’t know how to make freezer jam.”

“I know you’re half a cup shy of your one and three-quarter cups juice,” says Kevin.

Uppity glares at him, pours more sparkling cider from the bottle into her pot. “There,” she says. “You know, this sure seems like a big pot for just a cup and three-quarters juice.”

“Well, you’re going to make all the jam at one time, aren’t you?” says Kevin.

“But I don’t know if I have a double recipe’s worth of blackberries,” says Uppity.

Kevin waits, then puts down the spoon he’s using to stir onions and chicken. “Let’s meh-zure them,” he says slowly, and pulls out a large measuring cup. He pours the contents of one of the bowls of berries into it. “Here, this is about two and a half cups.”

Uppity takes the berries, adds them to the pot, then pours in the remaining sparkling cider from the bottle.

“What’s that?” asks Kevin.

“It’s about another one and three-quarters cups juice,” says Uppity. She adds the other bowl of berries. “And that’s about 6 cups of berries.”

She turns the heat up under the pot, takes a whisk from the drawer and starts to stir her concoction.

After a few moments, Kevin says, “Aren’t you making both batches of jam at once?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Uppity.

“Well, aren’t you supposed to use this, then?” He holds up a familiar looking box.

“Oops,” says Uppity. “Give me that.” She rips open the box and pours the second packet of pectin into the pot.

Kevin stirs onions, chicken and bell pepper.

“Oops,” says Uppity. “I think I was supposed to boil the pectin and cider before adding the berries.”

When Kevin says nothing, she adds, “It’s probably not going to work now.”

When Kevin still says nothing, she says, “And I still don’t have any containers.”

“What about those ones I put on the sink?” Kevin says finally.

“They’re dirty!”

“You can wash them!”

“Ok, ok,” says Uppity, “I’ll wash them. But I still don’t think this is going to work.”

“It’s going to work, god damn it,” says Kevin, abandoning his fajitas. He snatches the whisk and shakes it at Uppity. “This is going to god damn work.”

A few minutes later, Kevin and Uppity eat their fajitas at the kitchen table while waiting for the berry mixture to heat. Kevin gets up to set a tortilla on the stove burner to toast and glances into the pot.

“This is kinda boiling,” he says, stirring it with the whisk. “What does the recipe say to do?”

“’Boil one minute,’” Uppity recites.

“You’re just saying that,” says Kevin. “It does not say that.” He grabs the recipe off the fridge with his free hand and reads, “‘Bring to a rolling boil that cannot be stirred down and boil for one minute…’”

Uppity watches as the berry mixture slowly boils over the top of the pot in a purple, foamy cascade. She starts to laugh.

“Aaaagh!” says Kevin.

He grabs a pair of potholders and removes the pot from the heat. At that moment, the tortilla he was toasting on the other burner bursts into flame.

Uppity can’t stop laughing.

Kevin throws down the potholders and tosses the black tortilla into the sink. He turns to Uppity.

“You vex me,” he says.

“You better eat this jam,” she replies.

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