I hope this post finds everyone alive, well, and enjoying life. ( If this post finds you, then the odds are at least 30% in my favor. You’re *probably* alive.)
I’ve been a busy couple of months in my life. My part-time teaching job has morphed into about twenty other things. Which, I’m beginning to understand, is simply the norm for teachers all over the country. Teaching is never quite as simple as it sounds. But it’s totally worth it.
My husband – bless him – tries to help out by fixing dinner on Thursdays.
Okay. If I’m being honest, I told him he has to fix dinner on Thursdays. Not that I issued an ultimatum or anything. I just told him that if he wanted to eat dinner on Thursdays, then it might be in his best interests to start cooking dinner on Thursdays. With love, of course. I said it with love. Always with love. (In my defense, Thursday and Friday are my husband’s regular days off. Does that make me sound like less of a shrew?)
Unfortunately, last week’s Thursday was a bit of a cooking disaster. My van was in the shop because the brakes had spontaneously decided to stop working one day as I drove to school. By the time we got the van picked up, it was too late to cook, and we were all starving. So we ordered dinner – a rare treat.
I figured I could capitalize on that, though, and have my husband fix dinner on Friday. That’s fair, right? I texted my husband to ask what was for dinner that night, and I’m pretty sure I got the look via text. Eventually, though, he said he’d fix French toast. When I got home that day, I walked into the house to the pleasant smell of French toast sizzling in the kitchen.
Right before the house began to fill with smoke, that is.
My son opened windows, turned on a fan, and tried to clear the smoke out. It started to billow, though, and the fan and windows couldn’t keep up with the billowing smoke.
Pretty soon, my son was covering his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt and backing out of the kitchen while saying (from behind the sleeve of his sweatshirt), “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”
Meanwhile, my husband was staring at the frying pan, a puzzled look on his face. “I followed the recipe. I followed the recipe.”
It was one of those priceless moments in time where you can’t help but laugh. And you know what? I like to laugh. So I kind of enjoy moments like these – especially when there’s no actual fire involved. Just some burnt French toast and the charred scent of egg, sugar, and cinnamon.
With a touch of pizza for good measure. Because, after all, that’s what you get for dinner when the French toast gets burnt. Everybody knows that.
These are the kinds of moments in life that tie us more closely together to the ones we love. Shared memories bind us to people each and every day. If you’re going to be bound to someone, what would you like the bindings to look like? Chains? Rope? Or the musical notes of laughter? I choose the latter. What about you?
Share a memory that you and your friends or family still laugh about whenever someone brings it up. One commenter will be randomly selected to win a $5 Amazon gift card, winner to be announced in the upcoming Sunday Edition.