So, about a hot minute after I was all, “I have a stress fracture and haven’t gone to the grocery and now we’re going to starve and die unless I go to the grocery and use the motorized cart to give oblivious and rude shoppers tickets?” Yeah. Well, I determined that I had just enough stuff in the house to cook up some tortilla soup.
I was totally Becky Home-Ec-y. I was stretching my grocery dollar. I was being creative with my ingredients on-hand. Sure, the recipe called for an onion that I didn’t have. No problem! I’d use a pepper and throw in a little garlic. It would be a taste sensation. I was the best wife on the planet, and a culinary visionary.
While the peppers were simmering on the stove, a stack of cookbooks on top of my fridge collapsed. This sent a very cool antique jar careening across my tiny kitchen.
Miracle of miracles, the jar didn’t shatter. Yahoo! Sure, I’d just learned that I had a broken bone in my foot. But that was evidently the extent of my crap quota. I put the jar back on top of the fridge and straightened the books.
You know where this is going.
The books collapsed again. Either I have a poltergeist or I live in an old house where nothing is square. Either way, the books collapsed and the jar flew off the top of the fridge. Again.
Then? Then, the jar didn’t shatter. It … self-obliterated?
The metal lid was left. But there were no large pieces of the jar left. The glass had hit the edge of the stove and exploded into millions of teeny, tiny shards. My kitchen didn’t look like a glass had broken. Instead, it looked like I’d dropped a box of glitter.
I wasn’t doing the best job of keeping it together anyway, and I have to admit: this broke me.
When My Guy got home about 20 minutes later, he found me vacuuming the kitchen counters and drinking right out of the wine bottle. As you do. Because there was no other way to pick up the glass, and I needed some liquid assistance.
He asked what I was doing. And I may have cried a tiny bit when I explained that it had NOT BEEN A GOOD DAY.
Then, we both stood over the pot of half-started soup. I rested my head against my husband’s chest, and we silently stared into the abyss, trying to decide if the soup-to-be was filled with glass shards.
Finally, My Guy said, “That’s totally going to kill us. We should order Chinese.”
This is adulthood.
And yes, for those keeping track? This wasn’t the first time I considered whether or not food filled with shattered glass was edible.