Once upon a time, my husband sat me down in the den with my favorite magazine, turned on the soft reading lamp, slipped off my shoes, patted and propped my feet and announced that he was preparing dinner all by himself.
“How romantic!” I thought.
Two-and-a-half hours later, I was still waiting for dinner to be served. I tip-toed to the kitchen and found it a colossal mess. My harried husband, removing something indescribable from the smoking oven, saw me in the doorway.
“Almost ready!” he vowed. “Sorry it took me so long – I had to refill the pepper shaker.”
“Why, honey, how long could that have taken you?”
“More’n an hour, I reckon. Wasn’t easy stuffin’ it through those dumb little holes.”