It was one of those days in Cheryl’s kitchen. Cheryl was at work, and when the cook’s away, well …
“Okay, so where’s my latté? You know I can’t start my morning without it.”
The coffee pot was always out of sorts before his first cup of the day. He considered himself the major appliance of the kitchen – after all, Cheryl usually began her day in his company.
A sweet accent wafted toward him from the other side of the counter. It was his ladylove, so he shrugged off his ill humour and bent his handle in her direction.
“The kitchen is a little chilly this morning,” said she. The teapot was wrapped in a cute Christmas cozy, but Mister Coffee could see that her wee spout and handle were finely cracked and cold.
“Allow me, Miss T. I’d be happy to warm your pot for you.”
From the shadows, a squat pale white form appeared.
“Unhandle the lady, you knave. You can’t even boil water. Keeping Miss T warm is a man’s job. Come back when you’re all grown up.”
A friendly pot attempted to rise to Coffee’s defence.
“You won’t catch me calling the kettle black, though I do wish you’d clean that flaky white stuff off your insides.”
She was ignored, but Sir Kettle’s remarks stung because he had spoken the truth. Coffee only boiled by accident and he knew that Miss T liked her love life not only hot, but also boiling. He turned his attention to his counter mate, Bread Maker. That was a mistake: all the woman ever did was sing to herself. Worse yet, it was always the same song. There she was, singing it again: “I’ve got my buns to keep me warm.”
Oh well, maybe he’d get more intelligent conversation out of the toaster who shared, along with him, the space between the stove and the fridge. They discussed their luckless love lives: he with the teapot and Toaster with the sandwich maker whose cord had been lost in Cheryl’s last move and who subsequently died from a bad case of uselessness and was buried in the trash. They moved on to fashion as Toaster said:
“I’m going to have to give up these specialty breads. The itch from the seeds is driving me insane.”
At that moment an angry voice rose to Coffee’s right. It was the stove.
“You splatter me with grease one more time and I’ll burn your britches.” Stove was always seeing red over some issue. This time the object of his ire was the frying pan.
“You shouldn’t threaten to burn your bridges. You know what happens when you end up out on the curb – RECYCLE – you’ll come back in your next life as a can opener.”
“Clean the water out of your ears, Sink! I said ‘britches,’ not ‘bridges.’ And I wasn’t talking to you anyway.”
From the bowels of the corner cupboard came the now seldom heard voice of the can opener.
“I resent that remark. Besides, you’d be well served. Becoming one of us would make you a collector’s item. Tabs are taking over so I’m putting in for retirement.”
Silly innocent. In the kitchen, “retirement” was one step from the dreaded trashcan. The first frenzy of spring housecleaning and Cheryl would literally dump the thing.
Frying Pan couldn’t contain himself any longer.
“You know what I always say: ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire!’”
“And that’s another thing,” responded the stove. “Could you please put your lid on and keep your cooking to yourself so that your ‘guests’ don’t jump out at me kicking and screaming and CAUSE the fire.”
“You’re in the sauce now, Frying Pan,” interjected the double boiler, who was starting to do a slow boil sparked by the stove’s heated words.
“Would you be quiet!” hollered the frying pan to Miss T’s three-legged stand. “Take your identity crisis somewhere else. The only frog I want to see around here is a few dozen legs up close and personal and smothered in butter.”
Things were getting too hot and heavy for the Mix Master. He decided that some action needed to be taken to bring all these rowdies into line.
“You all need a good beating. One more word and I’ll give it to the lot of you.”
“Cool, dude,” boomed out the freezing tones of The Refrigerator, with whom no one dared argue. The fridge hummed contentedly in the ensuing silence.
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