Yesterday morning I woke to the sounds of my husband making coffee, and I gazed groggily at my phone to see the time. I thought I recalled something about him having to leave for work earlier than usual, so I pulled myself from bed too. Coffee did sound nice.
As I imagined he would be my husband buzzed around hurriedly getting ready for work. I got a quick kiss of course, but otherwise there was little time available for conversation. He seemed distracted and intent to leave on time.
He didn’t even tell me he loved me.
I had collected my coffee and the children were starting to stir when suddenly I heard my husband call out from the kitchen, “Why is the floor wet in here?”
I got up quickly and met him staring peculiarly at the puddle coming from the sink area. Both huge sink basins were full of dishes I’ll admit, and dirty water reached almost the lip of each one. I watched with a grimace as my husband went to let the drain out, and that’s when he said, “There’s no stopper. They’re both clogged up.”
Then it hit me, and sheepishly I uttered, “It’s my fault.”
In the almost 30 years I had been cooking ground beef I had never poured grease down my sink without a hot water chaser, but the prior night I had. I had been frazzled, in a hurry, per usual, to get supper made, and I could easily recall me dumping a pan full of grease with the ultimate intention of taking care of it later. All I had done, though, was clog up my sink, and I knew it was hardened grease just like a clogged artery that prevented the flow of the tap.