What is a Friday Flashback, you ask? Well it is something that happened a long time ago...something that I would like to document, so I don't forget.
This Friday Flashback takes us back to 1992. John and I had only been married about 6 months or so. We had just recently moved into a lady's house, her name was Annabelle, and she was leaving for an 18 month mission for the church--we were going to house sit for her.
Annabelle's house is a completely different blog post in and of itself. (I did love Annabelle, she was a great lady! Her house was just a little spooky to a young married girl.) A few adjectives that could describe the house...chilling, creepy, eerie, horrendous, intimidating, shocking, spooky, hair-raising, horrifying, spine-chilling, unnerving--the list could go on. Sorry Annabelle, I tend to call it like it is. Did I mention that her house was VERY old. So we basically lived in a crypt for 18 months.
One evening I was preparing dinner in the old kitchen of the old house. John was on the phone, and I was at the stove attempting to make white gravy. When I say "attempting" to make gravy, I mean it. Like I already said, we had only been married a few months and I was most certainly NOT a gourmet chef. I was more of an easy-bake oven kind of gal.
I was using the "flour" that Annabelle had left in a canister to make my delicious white gravy. Try as I may, I could not get the gravy to thicken. The more I tried the more frenzied I got. After trying for SEVERAL minutes, I started to pitch a little temper-tantrum-fit. I think I may have even been stomping around the kitchen, and I hate to think of what was coming out of my mouth. You get the picture.
Eventually, John came into the kitchen and told me that I needed to take a break and come back to the "gravy" in a minute. I forcefully told him "NO...not a chance"--I was very adamant about it. Those of you that know me well, know that I am stubborn and very determined when it comes to completing something.
I continued to try to thicken the gravy, which lead to more stomping, which lead to more anger. Eventually John came to the conclusion that I needed to be removed from the kitchen. As he came to physically remove me from the kitchen, I spread my legs and anchored myself to the counter top. It became a complete WWF competition in the kitchen, and I was not going down without a fight. The harder he pulled, the tighter my grip. Ultimately, John was stronger and was able to detach me from the counter and haul me off into the living room. He sat my fuming fanny down on the couch--I don't remember if it was accompanied with a "lecture series" or not. What he probably wanted to do was turn me over his knee and spank my butt, swat my behinder, tan my hide, paddle my rump, work me over, whatever you want to call it.
I sat there in the living room and fumed for a few minutes, and then went back into the kitchen. When I was able to gather my wits and look closely at the "flour" I had been using, I discovered that it was actually powdered sugar.
The complete definition of my situation...stupid person ,blockhead, donkey, dope, dunce, fool, idiot, imbecile, jerk, nitwit, numbskull, simpleton, twit.
Just imagine how I felt as I tried to explain to John what went wrong in my "gravy making process". It wasn't the ingredients, it was the chef. And instead of wearing a chef's hat, I was wearing a dunce cap.
Good thing I am married to such a kind a patient guy. He simply let me blow my top, pitch a fit, rant on and on, and then come back to see the error of my ways. At that point I'm sure that John realized he was in for more then he bargained for, marrying this little lady.
Everyone is entitled to be stupid, but some abuse the privilege. --Unknown