“Ten minutes,” I said.
“Just ten minutes, and I’ll have delicious pasta for work tonight.”
I had ten minutes to kill while the bed sheets finished drying. In fifteen minutes, the bed would be made, my lunch packed and I’d be out the door, on my way to the Mother-in-Love’s to spend some time with Baby Girl before heading to work.
“Just ten minutes,” I said.
So, I got everything cooking. The sauce was heating, the linguine boiling, the timer set.
I briefly left the kitchen to change my clothes. And I returned to this…
The sauce had been transformed into Mount Vesuvius, erupting violently, shooting great fireworks into the sky.
Except there was no sky. Only the ceiling. And the cabinets. And the microwave. And the counters. The stove. The floor.
Sauce was EVERYWHERE.
And there went playtime with Baby Girl. Up in smoke. Or rather, up in sauce.
I wanted to cry. I cleaned instead.