During these hot summer days when maiden aunts are subsisting mostly on smoothies and sandwiches, our thoughts naturally turn to food tales of yore.
Picture it: my mother's kitchen, 1985. My youngest sister Rachel (age 8 at the time) asked me to help her make a milkshake. Since I was fully grown and much taller, she stood in front of me while we loaded the blender with ice cream, milk, and Nestle's Quik. As I reached out to pick up the blender's lid off the counter, Rachel pushed a button and started the blender.
Have you ever noticed how, in moments like this, time seems to slow way down? I saw her push the button. I heard myself say "NOOOOOOOOO." I saw the blender's contents fly high into the air, and then splash down upon us. I was still reaching for the lid while flailing toward the off switch.
I surveyed the wreckage. There were chunks of ice cream and splashes of milk everywhere. I was spattered from the chest up and completely clean from there down since Rachel had made a very effective human shield. She was drenched from head to toe, her hair dripping chocolate milk onto the floor. I ran across the kitchen and unspooled a roll of paper towels to mop us off, and then sent her to take a shower and change. I cleaned the kitchen, although I suspect my mother is finding bits of chocolate in odd places to this day.
When I got back from my turn in the shower, believe it or not, the kid still wanted a milkshake.