|
|
|
|
|
PARKVILLE, MD Culinarily-impaired housewife Maggie Reynolds wanted nothing more last night than to prepare the perfect dinner for her husband, Roy, their two children, and her in-laws, Delwin and Pat Reynolds, who were visiting for the week. So she began preparing her feast early yesterday afternoon, realizing that this could be her chance to finally earn the respect of her mother-in-law.
The meal that Reynolds planned was to be absolutely spectacular. More a masterpiece than a meal, really. Two kinds of meat. Three vegetables. Salad with two homemade dressings. Fancy potato dishes that required real potatoes out of a bag instead of the ones that come in a box. She had been practicing for years just for this occasion.
Things began well, and Reynolds scurried around the kitchen, humming a happy tune while enjoying the process involved in creating her work of art. She even prepared garnishes to ensure that the meal would contain just the right amount of color.
After chopping some peppers of all colors, she placed them in a bowl and—in order to keep them fresh—she decided to cover the bowl and store it in the refrigerator.
Reynolds reached for the drawer with trepidation—because, inside, her arch nemesis waited for her, eager to pick up their battle where they last left off.
Plastic wrap: that horrifying invention brought to life to torment women like Reynolds. That plastic film that’s supposed to cover bowls and pans with a beautiful, ripple-free, glass-like coating—just like in the commercials. But Reynolds had never seen plastic wrap in anything but a tangled mess. Clinging to everything—counters, silverware, children—except for the one thing it was meant to cling to.
But Reynolds realized that her desire to impress the heck out of her mother-in-law far surpassed her terror at the sight of her sworn enemy. So she carefully reached into the drawer, pulling out the box, tugging on the clingy material inside.
She fought. She struggled. But before she could surrender and agree to withstand the shame of serving less-than-fresh peppers to her in-laws, the plastic wrap had overtaken her in its freshness-sealing trap. She was stuck. There was no getting free. No cutting loose.
When the rest of the family finally found Reynolds, her arms wrapped tightly to her sides, she had managed to hop her way to the phone and was in the process of dialing the emergency Pizza Hut number with her nose. Dinner was a success (or at least her kids thought so)—but Reynolds had once again suffered a humiliating defeat.
|
|
|
|
