Monthly "Idjit in the Kitchen" Report

As I've noted in the past, I have what appears to be a monthly tendency to do something completely idiotic in the kitchen or with kitchen-related items.

So today I bring to you January's edition of Lindy Loo stupidity.

I am cheap. I don't care. The only real problem I run into with my cheapness is with garbage bags, since the cheap ones I buy appear to be made of one-ply toilet paper. I don't have a long hike to the garbage though, so it's always been a non-issue.

But last night, I forgot about the heaviness of litter-box garbage, and I convinced myself that the small hole in the side of the bag would maintain its size long enough for me to make it down my stairs and out to the garbage.

Instead, it lasted about 6 stairs down into my hallway where it decided to morph into a gaping maw of a vomitous hole, spewing every single bit of garbage down the stairs while I shouted MOTHERFUCK and stamped my feet really loudly in a sort of tantrum-esque move that really wasn't effective at all.

It wouldn't've been quite so bad had it not been for the fact that the bag was full of at least 4 days-worth of still-slightly-moist coffee grounds (which, had they been dry, wouldn't have been so much of a problem--but moist grounds are IMPOSSIBLE to sweep), old cooked spaghetti noodles, and some sort of mushy food-substance which I don't even remember ever having made (so perhaps noodles and coffee grounds made sweet sweet garbagey love during the week and this was their very disgusting offspring).

Even all that wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't for the fact that I have about 7 pairs of shoes lined up down this very same hallway. And of course all of the most disgusting contents managed to spill directly INTO about 4 pairs of shoes. Think woody asparagus chunks in a nice pair of brown open-toed heels, noodles in a pair of boots, and the noodle-coffee love-child smudged all over a perfectly innocent pair of mary-janes.

Despite all of this, the *crowning* idjit moment of this incident came not with the wrecked shoes, but with a pickled-artichoke jar, half-full of pickled and moldy artichokes, which managed to pop open and spill its entire contents down the stairs and onto my entry-mat. One would *think* that moldy pickled artichokes would just smell like vinegar. But let me tell you: they smell distinctly like moldy pickled artichokes. And even a nice stick of Nag Champa can't strangle that smell.

So heed this warning, my lovely veg readers: If you're gonna skimp on something in the kitchen, let it be the foil, let it be the canola oil, let it be your KISS THE CHEF g-string, but never let it be the garbage bags.

THE END

In lieu of a recipe this morning, I leave you with this (and the hope that I will post something more recipe-ish later on)...

I am the queen of all vegan klutzes when in the kitchen. It is rare for a week to go by without me disastrously destroying SOME sort of kitchen item in the most Charlie-Chaplin-esque pratfall type of way possible. In the past two weeks, I've demolished a plate and also the casserole dish that I'd just newly acquired (to my deepest dismay).

Well, yesterday, while cooking up some mac n' cheese, I managed not to actually break anything, but I instead had the most vegan-erotic, Flashdance-esque moment ever had by a fellow human-being in their kitchen...

As I went to pour soy milk into the pot out of my large jug of soy milk, I lost my grip on it, and it fell, hitting the stove on the way down and ricocheting a fine stream of milk through the air and all over my shirt and pants. As it did so, I of course thrust my head back, my hair swinging dramatically through the air, and arched my back (ever so erotically) in an attempt to avoid the sudden soy-milk storm. Which was of course unsuccessful, resulting in me standing there with my boobs pushed out, looking like the winner of a weird one-woman vegan wet-t-shirt contest.




I then did what I somehow always manage to do, which is to make the situation worse, this time by overcompensating for the spill and trying to grab the container on the way to the floor, which instead sent it into another tailspin, in which it flipped the remainder of its contents through the air, all over my stove, and all over the floor.

I stood there, horrified and stunned, soymilk dripping from the shirt now clinging to my ample bosom (I *so* should be writing food-erotica, no?), soy milk dripping from my hair, soy milk dripping from my fuzzy Grinch slippers, staring at my kitchen which now looked like a dozen babies had projectile-vomited everywhere, and I thought of you, dear readers. I thought of you.

Because I know that, despite all my klutzy vegan foibles, you love me. Or at least put up with me.

And for that, I am very thankful this holiday season.

Hee hee.