Attack of the Sauce
So, I am making dinner for myself and my girlfriend. I make it downstairs in the kitchen, but when it’s ready I plan to take it upstairs, to where she is watching TV in our room. Also, it is midnight, and my normal-work-hours-abiding housemate is sound asleep, so I am trying to be quiet.
Once dinner is made, these are the items I need to take upstairs:
2 plates laden with food
2 sets of cutlery
3 bottles of wonderfully unmatched types of sauce
Why so much sauce? Don’t ask so many questions. Just admit that sometimes it is hard to predict what kind of sauce you will want to reach for next when lying in bed stuffing your face.
I have the brilliant idea that perhaps I can manage to take everything up at once. I mean, I know that two trips will probably be easier and much more sensible, but will also take A WHOLE EXTRA 45 SECONDS!!! So fuck that, I reason. Instead I pick up both sets of cutlery in my left hand, then lay both plates along my left arm in that balancy way that waiters do all the time with no problem at all. In my right hand I pick up the three bottles of sauce, a finger curled around each bottle’s neck. This leaves me with a pinkie free on my right hand to turn off the light (because I don’t want to have to come back down here just to switch off a damn light!), plunging me into pitch blackness. Meanwhile, a whole bunch of cupboard doors stand open across my route out of the kitchen. This is an unseen and completely unnecessary obstacle course, as I could have very easily done myself the favour of closing the cupboards before loading up with precarious foodstuffs and turning off the only light, but I just couldn’t be bothered at the time.
I attempt to navigate through nonetheless, shutting cupboards by thumping them with my shoulder, creating a kind of wild, spinning motion accompanied by panicked clattering. I start to think about how much noise it will make if I drop everything, and how I don’t want to start making dinner again from scratch. The situation really is less than ideal, I realise.
I decide to abort. I must put something down! I swivel my sauce carrying hand over the corner of the island bench in the middle of the kitchen. The sauce bottles, hilariously, are all different sizes, so I can really only set the tallest one down on its base. Still, all I have to do is uncurl the finger that is clasping it, and then I will be able to then deal with the others in turn. At this point, said traitorous finger totally cramps up, and I CANNOT ACTUALLY LET GO OF THE SAUCE. As I struggle to do so, the bottle jiggles slightly out of my grip, sliding to a 45 degree angle with the bench top, so that if I do manage to let it go, it will surely roll and smash loudly on the ground. Now I cannot lift it back up OR set it down. Ha ha!
Okay, I reason – maybe I should set down the plates? I bend my knees to try and bring them level with the bench top, thinking I can slide them off onto the tiny strip between the sink and certain death. This is when the cutlery I’m holding pokes into the side of the bench, preventing me from bringing the plates in over any kind of land. The jolt dislodges them enough, however, that any further movement will surely spell disaster.
‘Take it easy,’ I say to myself. ‘Just stay calm and regroup.’
I stand there in the dark, trapped and paralysed, and wonder how it has all come to this. I think to myself, ‘I am a grown man. I am reasonably intelligent. Surely this is not the worst problem I have ever faced. Surely I will come up with a way to get out of this somehow. I refuse to be defeated by sauce. Think, dammit. THINK!’
No solutions present themselves. I find myself wondering if I will be trapped here forever. Some day, someone will stumble across my dusty old skeleton in the kitchen, tightly gripping antique sauce bottles and mouldy plates, and wonder how I came to meet such a strange and ridiculous end. Maybe it will be my girlfriend, if she ever gets curious about where her dinner is.
By now you must be curious about how I manage to get out of this terrible predicament and live to tell the tale. Well, who’s to say I ever did? Maybe I am still standing here, right now.
Maybe I typed out this message on my phone with my toe.
Please send help.
I’m also pretty stoned.