A Roller Coaster And I Am Not

This here is Ground Zero for my particular kind of crazy.

Pete and his father renovated the kitchen about fifteen years ago. As designs for shared kitchens go, it’s perplexing: six-foot persons should share it with seven-foot persons and all of them should be skinny like cornstalks. I would put things I used often where I could reach them and Pete put them back up where I could not. I told him to quit it; he told me to use the fuzzy, rickety folding stool. I explained how we were gonna get divorced with the help of a wood chipper if he didn’t quit hiding the crystallized ginger behind the kosher salt; he laughed and I rearranged his salt collection. The third time the bottle of olive oil fell on my head I swore in three languages and bought this spice rack. We scrubbed out the cabinet, brought bottles and jars down from the top two shelves and Pete and I did not get divorced.


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