Yesterday, I made an amazing chicken coconut kurma for dinner. But what was more amazing was how that dinner got made at all. I had just chopped the onion, diced the tomatoes and cut the chicken up into the pan. It was sizzling nicely. I walked from the stove to the sink–a mere three steps–with a Corelle plate in my hand, a plate that had about an inch of disgusting raw chicken juice on it from the chicken just thawed and now cooking. Somehow, when I put the plate on the counter in front of the sink and shoved, I must not have shoved hard enough. Or invisible Sunday-ruining minions pushed from the other side. (I’m going with the minions.) I can still see the plate going down, in slow motion, me helpless to stop it. It shattered on the floor and sent raw chicken juice splattering everywhere: cabinet doors, floor, the hapless toy that happened to be in its path.
My hubby ran in to see what had happened. His first question: “Are you OK?” His second question: “How can I help?” See why I love this man? Not once did he ask how I happened to break a plate with a salmonella special on it. Although I’m sure he was curious to know how I became Grace personified.
I asked him to get me some shoes (I was barefoot), and either take over the cooking while I cleaned up or clean up the mess I had made. He hurried brought me some sandals, got out the Clorox wipes, the Lysol spray, the mop, the dustpan and the broom and dove in. I meanwhile tended dinner, a dinner which isn’t difficult, just time-consuming. It’s not one you can really just leave and expect it will be all right. Our eleven-year-old and nine-year-old successfully kept the youngest two out of the kitchen until all germs and broken glass shards were swept and sanitized away. My hubs even got out the table and chairs to eat out on the deck afterward.
I am so blessed to have my knight in shining armor. And riding in on a dustpan, mop, and can of Lysol beats a white steed any old day.