Death By Dough…

The kitchen is the most dangerous room in the house. At least in my house.

I was so focused on my tongue wound, I forgot to tell you about the Attack Of The Killer Biscuits that happened not ten minutes previous to my encounter with the Yoghurt Cup From Hell.

Nat and I wanted some pie, and she wanted some juice first, so I poured her some juice sans sippy lid…I’m kind of a rebel that way, living on the edge like that just makes me feel, somehow more alive, you know?

Sorry ladies, I’m spoken for. You’ll have to find yourselves another Bad Boy.

So anyway, Nat is standing there, goggling cross-eyed into the juice cup clutched in both little fat hands, a cup which I have deliberately overfilled, as I am training her fine motor skills, and I reopen the fridge, and reach down to a lower shelf for the Key Lime pie, and find out, quite abruptly that, why yes, the wife indeed has set a death-trap for me.

I had asked her to buy me a tube of cheapo biscuit dough so I could try out this quick and dirty Sopapilla recipe I have found, and in revenge, she bought them for me. And placed them in the fridge, in a most threatening and misfortunate disposition, whereupon the tube slid out along with the pie, hit the floor, and exploded loudly and forcefully, nearly causing an unfortunate ‘underwear incident’.

I mean, that fucker exploded! The tube, still with a four biscuit throw weight warhead in it, shot at my face, and I managed to flicker my head out of the way but a few biscuits whapped into my chest, and when all was said and done, the kitchen was well and truly festooned with gobbets of biscuit dough.

As a tribute to my training, Nat was standing there, her eyes squinched shut, and not moving a muscle. Nor spilling a drop. She peeped one eye open, noted that nobody was obviously dead or bleeding, and resumed sipping her juice, while I picked biscuitry off of her, then me, then the floor, the walls, the front of the stove, and so on.

Johnny hollered from the stairwell “Bust…my…bumpers! What da heck wuth dat!”

“I just shot Nattie!” I shouted back.

“Don’t you thyoot my thithter!!” he cried out with some alarum. Nat rolled her eyes, and said “Oh shut up, John, Daddy didn’t shoot me…” Note that she did not say ‘wouldn’t shoot me’. That’s my girl. Too much trust isn’t healthy in a relationship. Keep em guessing, is what I always say.

Anyway, I collected all of the little flappy used-condom looking things, blew the dirt and fuzz off them as best I could, slapped them onto a cookie sheet, and baked them. Nat was suspicious, so I had her go over them with Johnny’s magnifying glass until she was satisfied.

With butter and honey, they were quite good.