I have a red mixing bowl. It’s the perfect size for a triple batch of pancakes. It has an enormous handle and a spout for pouring; I don’t make pancakes without it.
Today was a pancakes-for-supper kind of day.
And I couldn’t find the bowl.
When I finally tracked it down, it was on my daughter’s bedroom floor. It looked clean. I was pretty sure I’d just taken it out of the dishwasher yesterday morning, and the griddle had been heating up the entire duration of my search and was currently smoking. I blew a speck of dust away, and quickly mixed up the batter.
My boys ate.
By the time my daughter came home from work, the pancakes were almost all gone.
But that was okay, because she’s had a touch of the stomach flu; threw up seven times on Sunday, so she wasn’t very hungry.
Out of curiosity, I asked her why the bowl had been in her room. Popcorn?
“Popcorn? No. What bowl?”
“My red bowl. The pancake bowl.”
“Oh. That one. That was Sunday.”
“You know–I used it for a barf bowl after the garbage can got full.”