Upon muddling through the better part of a long, torturous winter, thoughts may often turn to escape, or even of something grander than this world. With a warm, sunny vacation still 6 weeks away, one might perhaps try to find a sign of the miraculous in everyday life.
It was precisely such a day that I was presented with a miracle. There I was in the kitchen- working my magic, beating a bunch of vegetables into submission for the family dinner of whatever I happened to cut up and throw into a pot for 30 minutes. My relentless toddler tugging at my pant legs, my 8 year old yammering on in the other room, at full volume. As I whacked another potato in half and let it fall open onto the cutting board, I was stricken by what could only be the holy sign of the cross.
After falling to my knees, tears streaming forth, I did all the religious things I’ve ever seen in movies: I flagellated myself, ate some wafers, dunked my head in a bunch of water, and made the kids sing like monks with me.
When Christian (Oh my GOD! His name!) arrived home to find the three of us sacrificing a chicken, he knew something was afoot. No sooner had I shown him the apparition than he sprang into action. The microwave lost its cart, and we scrambled around the house to find the most holy things we could think of. We set up a shrine for that potato, and we’ve not looked back since.
The only problem we’re encountering, apart from expecting throngs of pilgrims any day, is the unpleasant odor that’s beginning to make its way out from under the glass cloche.
Recent Comments