When I turned around I saw the slivered remains of the kitchen’s seventy-five year old glass light cover on the ground in front of the stove. It had been a flattened cylinder of thick glass that you could easily mistake for a flat-bottomed flower bowl or electric pole insulator. Frosted and clear glass shards and radiated out from the middle of the kitchen floor; slivers were about my slippered feet.
I don’t remember if I said “holy guacamole!” or just “whoa!”
Mark called from the bedroom where he was reading with the dog. “Are you okay?”
“There’s glass everywhere,” I said. Luckily, my slippers have sturdy rubber soles.
I closed the bedroom door and Mark sat with the dog while I began clean-up.
The light cover looked a bit like a jagged meteor strike underneath the light fixture, where two naked bulbs still glowed. I looked up at the metal ring and the screws that had held the cover in place: the screws looked like they were still in place and I couldn’t figure out how the cover had slipped their hold.
After a few minutes, the last of the shards tinkled into the kitchen’s garbage bin and the floor was mostly clear. Undoubtedly, there were vorpal bits of glass in unexpected corners.
I looked at the two quiches on the counter. If I had been five minutes faster, they would have been in the oven, which was still at 375F. If I had been four minutes faster, I would have been crowned with broken glass and likely fallen partially into the oven.
The question was had any broken glass made it to the kitchen counter? I looked, and looked, and found a sliver the size of a fingernail between the two quiche pans. Sighing and swearing, I dumped the quiche.
This has been the third odd accident in the kitchen over the last two weeks. An enameled pot of oil tumbled off of the stovetop and dumped olive oil all over the kitchen floor, and a few days later a glass saucepan lid jumped off of the stove and broke in more or less the same place as the light cover. Mark had had to go through a lengthy process cleaning the kitching. It’s enough to make one think of poltergeists or wicked hexes.
I wasn’t sure which was more annoying: wasting food, the wasted time, not being able to bring a meal to my folks, or having to be a one-man hazmat team.
I found another piece of glass on the kitchen nook table, next to the bowl of proto-custard that was to be the last ingredient poured into the quiche pans. As I poured the mixture down the sink, I contemplated the likelihood of a sliver or three of glass hiding somewhere in my clothing or in my hair.
While the pop queens’ music played, I moved chairs outside, swept, and vacuumed, swept again, and went over the floor with a wet cloth. I shone a bright flashlight along the floor and found glass bits hiding behind the kitchen cart.
Kitchen towels, a dog toy, placemats, and tablecloths were shook outside and tossed into the washing machine. Pet dishes, coasters, plates, trivets, mugs, and other utensils went into the sink or the dishwasher. I ran a wet cloth over the chairs and the bare table.
It took forever, but I wanted to be thorough because I didn’t want a dog or a cat or a human to encounter a stray bit of glass.
The last thing I did was step into the shower for a ritual cleansing and to rinse any glass out of my hair.
