Here’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Last week ~ I roasted a bird. A chicky bird. A big chicky bird. Eight pounds. That’s a lot of chicky.

Thursday ~ I decided to make stock with the bits and the bones. Yum. Yum. I did. I made a big pot of stock and put it into bowls in the fridge overnight to cool and let the fat rise to the top and harden. It did.

Friday ~ I removed the fat and ladled the stock into quart mason jars to put in the freezer. I left lots of room at the top. Lots. Some I put into a glass bowl with a plastic lid.

Saturday ~ Our tree trimming day. I wanted to make potato leek chowder and cornbread for lunch. Something warm and delicious to feed hungry tree-trimmers. I made a batch of cornbread and some Firehouse Brownies on Friday. Perfection. Friday was a good day.

Back to Saturday ~ I opened up the freezer to pull some of the homemade stock for the potato leek chowder and saw three completely frozen and horribly cracked quarts of stock. The only thing holding the huge cracks of glass together was the frozen stock.

I can cook.

I’m kicking myself for not taking pics right then. But I’m not PW, and my camera was not sitting on the kitchen counter. BTW, Mr. G, honey was out having a fender bender while this was going on.

What to do? What to do? What to do?

I got a big stainless steel bowl out of the cupboard and gingerly lifted the jars by the metal rims and placed them in the bowl to thaw. The glass bowl with the plastic lid was all the stock I had left, but it was enough to make the soup. Wahoo!

When Mr. G, honey came home — a little pissy out of sorts because the other driver left the scene of the accident — I showed him my cooking fail. His eyes shot to mine, and he stood blinking and thinking a minute. Maybe two. Finally, he just shook his head.

The rest of the day went as planned. Can I get an Amen!?

Sunday ~ I found a little note peeking out from under the stainless steel bowl. Do not touch this bowl until I am here. Mr. Romance didn’t even leave an XO.

He had good reason. He already new about the time I cut my hand washing a glass when I was a kid. FYI – Use a brush. It shattered, and my mama poured a bottle of alcohol over it before she sent me off to the doctor’s office. A whole bottle. Love you, mama. It was a bleeder, and I have a little scar, but it didn’t even require stitches. Those were the days.

We were married when I fell through a glass table and slashed my wrist, nearly severing a tendon. By some miracle, I lived. But there were stitches, and Mr. G, honey’s hair turned white.

But I told him I had a little action plan for getting that glass to the trash. He listened, nodded, and said, Okay then.

Tuesday ~ I got a brown cardboard box and lifted the metal rims of the jars out of the liquid stock, bringing thick pieces of broken glass with it, and tossed it in the box. I took a slotted metal spoon and sifted through the stock, bringing up more large chunks of glass, and tossed it. Panning for glass. I continued to sift and dump until there was nothing surfacing. The stock was discarded. I’m sure you are relieved to hear that!

Tuesday Night ~ We took Tech Baby to get five stitches in her hand. She had cut it washing a glass.

The apple does not fall far from the tree.

The end.

Elen