Late one evening a few nights ago, I was all comfy in my bed propped against my Bonne Nuit pillow, with Nook in hand, reading a travel memoir of Italy. I usually read travelogues of France instead of Italy. Pardon Moi!
A young Australian man leaves career and everything behind in Australia when he falls in love with a beautiful Italian lady, who speaks English with a cute accent and says stuff that drives him crazy like she didn’t forget, she just didn’t remember. She’s my new best friend already! Wrapped in my bedcovers and their love story, I was imagining Hugh Jackman or Russell Crowe as the leading man, and I’ll admit that I assumed the role of leading lady in the good parts. Suddenly, from the kitchen: BOOM, CRASH, RATTLE sent shock waves to the bedroom. Normally, I would have jumped from the bed, but Russell was saying such sweet things to me that I couldn’t part his company. Husband Jim appeared at the bedside with a very worried look on his face. His green eyes edged with wrinkles from reading my Debbie-Doo lists were serious with no laugh-lines, and he spoke in a tone of voice reserved for critical car accidents or bad news from the medical lab: “Sweetheart, the pot rack above the range came loose from the wall.”
I flung Russell to the far side of the bed and ran faster than Jim knew that I could move at 11PM! Was my French copper-clad cookware damaged? What about my copper skillet, purchased forty years ago? Worst of all, was the ceramic-topped range below all of this cracked? When my heart caught up with my feet, I found the range was safe and only two pots had fallen on the floor. The rack had come loose at the top anchor and tilted forward. Jim was talking fast and assuring me that he would fix it. I looked around and saw that I had no help from Hugh or Russell, so I had to depend on old green eyes.
Southern Mother-in-Law will hear about this and say it was crazy to have those pots on the wall when we have a great, big oven to store the cookware, just like she does. “Yes, Mama, I know that I have to remove all of the pots, or sometime forget and grill the entire set.” Yet, Jim is fortunate.
Southern Italian Mother-in Law would fling bedcovers and everything aside after a cell phone call from screaming daughter. Papa would arrive angry from the disturbance. Dogs would bark their complaint. The noise level would cause an Auburn football pep rally to sound like a devotional. Son-in-law would pray for deliverance in either instance. Jim is fortunate, right?
Next day, a workday with construction duties kept me occupied. Jim was on his own with no Debbie-Doo list to keep him on track. End of the day, in the kitchen, I rattled on about my work, then I suddenly stopped mid-sentence. Above the range, the pot rack was attached UPSIDE DOWN!
Jim defended his arrangement and told me it was temporary. “Temporary? I know about temporary! I’m trying to forget the time you attached the TV antenna to a fence post with clothesline, just temporarily,” I reminded him. Old green eyes promised, “Ok, we will go to Lowes tomorrow.”