2629. The end of the Egg-Timer

I’m afraid I can’t feel the slightest bit of sympathy for the Egg-Timer, said the Toaster at the emergency meeting called for all the kitchen appliances. She (the Egg-Timer) has sat here on the window ledge for years in a smug manner – in fact Egg-Timers in general have sat smugly in the world’s kitchens for hundreds of years. Three minutes one way, and three minutes the other way.  Like sand in an hourglass so are the days of their lives. Three minutes one way for soft boiled, and an extra three minutes the other way for hard boiled.

I can see why she (the Egg-Timer) feels overworked. Well, I’m going to tell you a secret. It’s been bothering me for some time. I have checked numerable times with the oven clock and I tell you; she (the Egg-Timer) is thirteen seconds short of the three minutes. It’s shocking! An undercooked egg could be hazardous to health.

This is a very good reason not to boil an egg, said the Frying Pan. She (the Egg-Timer) has been poaching my position for years.

I think we should take a vote. All those in favour of ousting the Egg-Timer from the kitchen in place of the timer on the phone, please say Aye.

It appears to be unanimous. Henceforth the Egg-Timer is a thing of the past. Long live the phone! Now for the Salt Pig…

2573. An immensely ordinary day

It was one of those immensely ordinary days where nothing happens and then…

John was out weeding the garden – his beans to be precise – and Natalia was busy in the kitchen making cabbage and bacon bones soup to freeze for the winter. Don’t get me wrong; sometimes Natalia could be out weeding the garden and John could be in the kitchen whipping up a soup for freezing.

A car slowly went by on the road. Natalia came out to the garden.

“Did you see that car go slowly passed? It’s done it twice.”

“No. I didn’t notice.”

John stood to look.

“Here it comes a third time. It”

2266. Kitchen gadgetry

It had been a difficult time for Annie. She knew she wasn’t living in cuckoo land, but everyone else seemed to think so. No one believed her when she spoke of what had happened to her; where she had gone and why. Now she simply shut up about it except on rare occasions. If the person had asked kindly she didn’t mind too much narrating her experience, but usually she resented being pooh-poohed.

Her abduction naturally wasn’t voluntary. The aliens had been polite but firm. She had been selected because she was practical in the kitchen. They wanted to ask her about ordinary kitchen utensils. Most of them they couldn’t work out what they were for. A hand-beater for example; what was it used for and how?

Annie discovered that the aliens had every kitchen utensil and appliance under the sun, and wanted to have an entire room in the main museum on their home planet dedicated to Earthling Kitchen Gadgetry. Annie thought it quite fun to tell them all sorts of tall stories. A spatula, for example, was used for beating a wayward child. A frying pan was for smashing eggs; just place half a dozen eggs on the bench and smash them with a frying pan. A garlic press was for destoning plums. There was nothing that Annie didn’t make up a story about. Next time you go to the aliens’ museum you’ll see how wrong they have got the labelling. That’s because of Annie’s stories.

“That’s absolutely fascinating, Annie,” said the nurse. “The doctor will see you in a minute.”

1834. Kitchen spat

“You just have to wonder sometimes where the time goes,” said Dolly to husband, Lyndon. “It’s nearly two weeks now since I started to repaint the kitchen cupboards in the evening and I’m not even half way through.”

“There are two reasons for that,” said Lyndon. “Number One, you’re too fussy; and number two, you talk too much.”

Without any forethought, Dolly picked up the can of paint and threw the contents all over her husband. It wasn’t planned. It was spontaneous. Dolly had had enough of his snide remarks. Lyndon was covered in green pain, as was the kitchen floor and oven.

Lyndon was now angry, and perhaps justifiably so. “You know what?” he said. “You know what? I wasn’t going to tell you until after your birthday, but you’ve blown the surprise. I’m off. I’ll take the car. You keep the house. You catch the bus to where ever the hell you want to go. I’ll rent somewhere.”

“Good riddance!” said Dolly, louder than before. “You’ve been a pain in the proverbial for months. Here I am trying to paint the kitchen cupboards to make the house nice, and you just stand around and criticize. Well I’ll be better on my own. You are the most…“

“Just hold it there,” said Lyndon.

“What?”

“The director said not to get too loud on that passage. It’s more threatening to almost whisper the lines.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Dolly. “Shall we take it from the top?”

1513: Prone to tragedy

It’s such a shame. They were such a lovely couple. They were so down-to-earth – which is unusual for filthy rich personages.

To think how full of promise their lives had become! They had recently moved into their brand-new multimillion dollar mansion. It suited them down to the ground. It had a games room – or should I say “rooms”? The covered heated swimming pool was a delight. The tennis courts attracted so many genuine friends. The kitchen (Jacinta jokingly referred to it as a “my humble kitchenette”!) was big enough for Rufus, their world-class chef. In fact, Rufus had been with the household for years, ever since he was hired by Archibald’s first wife many years ago. Archibald joked that Rufus was the only real jewel in the family fortune.

And then last Thursday Jacinta’s body was found floating in the tropical aquarium. Archibald was devastated. How could she have drowned? He had suggested to her dozens of times not to overfeed the African banded barbs (Barbus fasciolatus). She wouldn’t listen. Fate had clearly decreed that she should drown in the fish tank because of her over-feeding fixation. How she fell in was anyone’s guess.

Some people are prone to tragedy. That is certainly the case with Archibald. Jacinta was his fourth wife to have inadvertently drowned in a tropical aquarium. Jacinta was the brightest star in my firmament of life, said Archibald. Rufus was more matter-of-fact: That’s the last time she’ll criticise my Caraway Crusted Pork Loin with Stewed Cabbage and Sautéed Apples.

675. Paddle cutting board

 

Kezia had a cutting board in her kitchen with a handle; sort of like a table tennis bat but rectangular.

There was also a mouse.

532. Two in the kitchen

They were both in the kitchen. Ethel May was emptying the dishwasher, and Paddy was refilling an airtight container with rice from a bag.

Ethel May said, “That jar really should be rinsed before being refilled.”

Paddy said, “Too late now.”

Ethel May said, “You never clean it. You always refill it dirty.”

Paddy said, “Well do it yourself then.”

Ethel May, at that moment, was holding the carving knife from the dishwasher. Week after week of frustration at not having the airtight rice container cleaned before refill gushed through her body like a tsunami.

Ethel May stabbed Paddy in the back. It just happened.

She got life.