For those of you wondering why Sunday is throwing up, fear not. Sunday Regurgitation occurs every Sunday, when I link to a prior post of mine, because I am trapped under something heavy and am unable to write anything original or riveting. Hopefully someone will notice I’m missing, remove whatever is suffocating me and I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow. But just in case you never hear from me again … think of me fondly.
I didn’t actually buy a tombstone for my cast iron skillet. I’m not totally certifiable. I simply gave it a eulogy comprised of every curse word known to man and some I just made up, ran over it with the Durango 34 times, beat it with my shoe, spit on it, had the neighbor’s dog pee on it and then flung it into the garbage.
I hope and pray that my garbage man’s groin does not sprout a hernia after Tuesday or if it does, that he has the decency not to present photographic evidence of it at the civil trial.
All I’ll say about the whole ordeal is that my mother-in-law whupped that cast iron skillet’s ass once and I tried to carry on her legacy but failed miserably and the burnt, blackened and scorched deaths of hundreds of potatoes will forever be on my conscience.
My family, on the other hand, are eternally grateful that they no longer have to quietly eat their cereal while witnessing the utter, complete and irrevocable mental breakdown of their matriarch in the kitchen on a weekly basis.
I leave you with links to the back story:
May the spuds who cross the threshold of our house breathe a collective sigh of relief.