Caring about people is kind of like stabbing yourself in the back with a bagel knife.

Or a steak knife

or a fillet knife.

Not a soft cheese knife, or a butter knife.

Maybe a boning knife, or even a paring knife.

The difference between preparing food in the kitchen and caring about people, however, is that when you prepare food  with said knives, they usually do not end up in your own back, or the backs of others…. Plus, once you are finished filleting, or paring or steaking or boning or bagelling, you remove the knife and clean it in the sink or dishwasher, repsectively. You don’t leave it protruding from your spine so that you can twist it every time you allow yourself to think….. don’t think.  Don’t think.
Don’t care = don’t kill.  It’s that much simpler.  Live life with a butter knife.
You can only accomplish so much with a butter knife, but you run a very minimal risk of  injuring yourself, unless you are very stupid.

Of course, if you’re stupid enough to injure yourself with a butter knife, you’re probably stupid enough to use a a steak knife to put peanut butter on your toast.

We were sitting on the porch talking. A bumblebee flew by and it freaked me out. I hate bees and such. Carson said he is allergic to bees.
I was stung by a bee on my first day of junior kindergarten, so my mom gave me chocolate ice cream.

Aaron said he is allergic to chocolate ice cream. My mom would have murdered him.

I said that I am allergic to pumpkins (at least raw pumpkins..)

We are allergic to happiness

“When I get happy, I break out into hives.”

“When I get happy, my throat swells up and I choke on my joy.”

“I have to carry an epi-pen with me in case I smile.”

Grain of salt, please.

Salt shakers… Salt shakers full of doubt. I carry a salt shaker with me wherever I go to remind myself that I need to question everything and anything.

“What did your mother always say to you?”

“Never put salt in your eyes.”

The nutrion guide always told us to avoid too much salt. Use other seasonings, like basil or thyme. Keep a well stocked spice rack.

Nobody every tells you to take something with a grain of rosemary. That would be facetious. Facetious. That word uses all five vowels in alphabetical order. “Facetiously” uses all six, if you consider the letter Y to be a vowel.

Why? What? Salt, please.

Interested in where the phrase “grain of salt” comes from?

http://www.randomhouse.com/wotd/index.pperl?date=20010425

So… no, I don’t take a salt shaker with me wherever I go. I hope you read that statement with a grain of salt.

They also told me that platypuses are not real. I refuse to believe that.

Somtimes, I fill the salt shaker up but forget to put tape on the holes. All the salt pours out onto the stove and I get annoyed.

Some of you may be wondering why I am writing about kitchen utensils. Most of you are probably not. I was thinking about what words imply. I was thinking which metaphors are used, and which metaphors aren’t.

It may seem ridiculous and bad taste to use, for example, an obsolete mated colander pot as a metaphor for the love that was once had, or a pair of reaching tongs to denote, perhaps, a gateway drug or a way to cheat in life. Maybe it seems ridiculous because we don’t use these as metaphors, or maybe these ideas really are ridiculous at face value. Of course, we’ll never know if they are ridiculous or not unless they are tried out.

On the other hand, the lack of diversity in the way we describe things can turn something sacred into a cliché. Are flowers really that romantic when every damn man buys his damn woman a bouquet of roses on Valentine’s Day? “HOW THOUGHTFUL!” Not really. Maybe it says you don’t know how to express your love: you only understand what society tells you love is supposed to be. Roses aren’t love.

Imagine if one day your boyfriend came home and brought you a bouquet of shoe horns. You’d think “Gosh that is strange. How on earth could he love me when he is expressing his love through the act of acquiring a bouquet of shoe horns?” However, because the shoehorns appear in the form of a bouquet, you still associate this with the idea of a bouquet of flowers, thus recognizing the romantic inspiration behind the shoe horns.

Moving forward, what if your boyfriend brought you home a box of shoe horns in non-bouquet form? What if your boyfriend thought that shoe horns were the epitomy of romance? What if you appreciated that your boyfriend felt so strongly about shoe horns that you told all your friends who then told their partners about the shoe horns, and their partners all went out and bought them shoe horns? Would we then see shoe horns in the windows of store shops on Valentine’s Day, and flowers and hearts would seem ridiculous? Shoe horns with “I love you” engraved on them. Shoehorns for him, shoehorns for her.

This is how something can play out as an action, does it seem absurd? INDEED.

So, that gets me to the following point:

Kitchen utensils can hold great meaning and emotional value, should you decide to apply a certain meaning to them.

The cheese grater is a prophet of doom.

Quiver in fear, my little block of mozzarella. Quiver in fear. You will never see the light of day again.

(Don’t take my writings on kitchen utensils seriously…. I’m making fun of myself this time… But I sure do like writing about kitchen utensils today!)

OH, Tongs.   I use thee to grab at what is always out of reach.

I am not speaking in metaphorical terms, oh no.  The cure for all my pain is just out of reach.

I need the grabbing tongs to reach the to of the cupboard where I keep the ibuprofen.

I have a headache.

OH fuck.

The grabbing tongs are in the dishwasher.

Oh fuck.

We are all out of ibuprofen.

All I can think about is spatulas.
At 10:30 I have an in class essay worth 20% of my mark for Fiction.
It’s okay, I like fiction.
But all I can think about is spatulas.

I didn’t sleep very well last night. I wasn’t thinking about spatulas. I was tossing and turning thinking about dumb shit, and didn’t even realise I had fallen asleep because I was dreaming about the same things. I woke up at 4am and bedroom door was still opened. I was even more confused, because I close it when I go to sleep.

I could have thought of ways to distract myself back to sleep, like spatulas, but I didn’t. I could have cleaned my room or done more research for school, but I didn’t.

I feel back asleep for a few more hours. When I woke up, I was thinking about spatulas.

My heart stops beating.

No, not romance.

I need an egg-beater to get it moving.

So, I went to the grocery store.

I asked them, “I need your best, strongest egg-beater . It’s a life or death situation.”

“A life or death situation? What purpose would an egg beater serve? We don’t have an egg beater of that scale. Perhaps you should just poach the eggs instead.”

The man didn’t understand.

“But… my heart. It stops beating.”

The clerk did not understand my plight, or understand my pain. How could a simple grocery store clerk understand the mission I was on, to save my heart from failing?

I poached my heart instead. It stoppped beating.