If you were to peek through my front window at about five o'clock this evening, my, what a sight you'd have seen. Paul texted me at about four to tell me he'd be home early and I was a picture of delight. I plopped the roast in the oven with a smattering of carrots and onions before starting the gravy. Let me modify that last statement: before attempting to start the gravy. There was just one kink in the hose. I could not open the bouillon. Usually, this particular task falls upon my dear husband because he is very strong and I am. . . not. But Paul was still at school, and I needed to make a delicious beef gravy! So I tried to open the jar on my own. The lid would not budge. I tapped it ever so lightly on the corner of the counter. Someone once told me if you tap the sealed part of a jar on the counter it miraculously makes it easier to open. The logic of this somehow alludes me but I thought I would give it a shot. I tapped and twisted and tapped and twisted and grunted and twisted and tapped once more. The jar was not coming open.
I retreated to the office where I could search through the tool drawer. I knew of something that might help and the yellow grippy glove I sought was there, dropped lazily over a screw driver and an old extension cord. I picked it up with my left hand, my cheeks pulling the corners of my mouth up into a broad smile. On the back of the glove it read, "MEGA GRIP", which was precisely what I needed. I slipped the glove on and twisted and twisted. I ran to the living room and sat down on the couch for leverage. I continued my prehistoric grunting and my face wrinkled up into a freckled mess. I lopped over onto the floor and twisted some more. I kept telling myself that if I just kept twisting, the lid would eventually come loose. My hands started to hurt and the excess blood pulsing through my cranium was making me dizzy. I set the jar on the carpet angrily and pressed my chin on the floor level with my new nemesis, glaring profusely. I studied the lid and with desperate eyes began to recite a poem.
Noooo! I was twisting righty tighty! How would I ever get the lid off now? I ran back to the kitchen. Tap tap tap!! Tap!! I twisted and twisted. With the bright yellow glove on my hand, Michael Jackson style, I twisted some more. I sat down on the couch for leverage, flopped over to the floor, twisted, grunted, squirmed, cried, and twisted of course. I sat the jar in front of me again. I was defeated. . . defeated by an eight ounce jar half full of beef bouillon. I would just have to wait until that man I love returned home to start gravy. But then my mind carried me to a place that is never safe to go. I once read a book called The Outsiders where a gang member broke the top off a coke bottle and used the sharp edge to fight. I had no intention of fighting with my bouillon jar but maybe I could break the top off on the concrete steps outside. . . or maybe not. Maybe I could wait for Paul.
I pick up the jar and walked to the fridge and decided to try once more. I half-heartedly turned the lid to the left and. . . POP! It opened! AHHH! All it took was my gentle twist and off it came. I starred at the lid in my hand with such confusion. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But I did neither. Paul would be home any minute, I needed to make gravy, and I had no time to loose.