When I started to fix a gelatin dessert for dinner, I measured the boiling water, as I have a hundred times or more, in my grandmother’s Depression era measuring cup.
It shattered. Boy, howdy, did it shatter. It’s still hanging together, but I need to steel myself to toss it in the trash.
The Squire was rummaging in the back room, and then came out and poked around in the refrigerator
“We don’t have any onions for supper.”
It sometimes happens that things in our fridge migrate from one place to another, so I took a look. I reached into the cheese drawer (don’t ask) and turned to him. “Will this do?”
“Ah! The Shallot of the Lady!”
And he headed for the cutting board.
