By Phil Riske | Senior Reporter/Writer
Upon retirement, I became a house husband, learning lessons about what most wives go through preparing thousands of meals.
“Now, you know what it’s like,” said my bride of 45 years, after I complained about my new marital responsibilities.
My biggest complaint about kitchen duty is not about loading the dishwasher or cleaning the oven or planning a week’s worth of dinners.
It’s the “Drawer from Hell,” the home of every kitchen/cooking utensils known to man. Imagine (and I’m sure many of you have such drawers) a fairly small drawer containing 42 years worth of everything from spatulas to bottle openers to whisks to ice cream scoops . . . well, you get the idea.?
My wife claims she knows exactly where everything is in the pile of metal and plastic tools that resembles a surgeon’s instrument tray.
It’s that proverbial needle in a haystack syndrome.
The bad guys in the Drawer from Hell are Mr. Spatula and his cousins. If you dare move one of them or fail to place them exactly in the pile where they were, you won’t be able to close the drawer. Spatulas must go in a separate drawer, face down. They are a menace to sanity.
I decided to take a bunch of the items in the Drawer from Hell and place them in another drawer. Little did I know they would clone themselves.
I now have “Son of Drawer from Hell.”
And my much better half is having quite a chuckle about it all.
