This morning I came down at six o'clock to find a bomb had gone off in my kitchen. Presumably one that had been housed inside a watermelon. And I'm going to have to consult the USGS about this, but I'm thinking the aftershocks from the blast had a destabilizing effect on the tectonic plates underlying Easy Street, causing a sudden shift and a small earthquake–just enough to shake every cook book, dish and eating utensil free of my cabinets and dishwasher. Really. How else do you explain the food splattered equidistantly on every surface in the entire room, vertical and horizontal? How to account for my empty pantry and refridgerator?
Unless you want to blame my children. Unless you are ready to believe that even collectively six of them could perpetrate such chaos in the middle of the night. That they decided, all on their own to make themselves blueberry muffins, biscuits and gravy, some burgers and from the looks of things, several packages of hot dogs. If so, I applaud their self-sufficiency. Really. Who am I to discourage such budding ingenuity?
They had piled most of their dishes in and around the sink. I'm not sure how the pile lasted the night without teetering into submission to gravity and call of the kitchen floor but maybe the pile hadn't been teetering there for very long–after all, creating a mess of that magnitude takes a respectable amount of planning and execution. And surely if they had started before I was sound asleep I would have noticed something was up. Sniffed out the explosives or heard the whine of the drill as they embedded the M-80 in the poor, vanquished melon.