The following story is 100% true and gives an extremely accurate glimpse into how we live life within the four walls of our home. Prepare yourselves.
Being both a doting wife and a culinary master, I was in the process of creating an elaborate lunch for Jason to take to work [read: turkey and cheese sandwich] and I needed to open a new mustard bottle. I took off the cap so I could remove the protective seal, twisted the cap back on, gave the bottle a quick shake [because no one wants that thin mustard juice from the top of a new mustard to be dripped onto their sandwich], and then popped open the cap. I have successfully performed this process with many a mustard bottle.
But today, when the cap popped open, it exploded globs of mustard every which way. One glob landed on the slice of bread, one splatted on the floor, and one daintily plopped on my arm. While Sebastian [my ever present kitchen assistant (who is unashamedly there for the sole purpose of sneaking bites of things)] laughed at me and exclaimed "Uh-oh!" repeatedly, I cleaned up the floor splat, took a picture of the amusing situation, swiped the arm mustard onto my knife, and smeared the arm mustard onto the bread. I then called to Jason in the other room and asked, "Do you mind if I still use the mustard from my arm on your sandwich?" His answer was prompt and unsurprising: "I don't care. It's fine with me."
And that, my friends, is reason #4,831 why Jason and I are soulmates [and reason #390 why we do not host parties].
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