When I work on construction projects around the house, I always take off my wedding ring. My hands usually swell up, and taking it off early beats watching my ring finger turn purple. Sometimes I don’t put it back on right away, because it takes a day or so for my hands to get back to their normal shape. And it was sunny out, so my tan line went away.
That’s the reason Betty Crocker hates me.
It was one of those Sunday afternoons when time doesn’t matter. My wife and I (did I mention I got married?) stopped at a little country store on the way back to her sister’s place, hoping to find a housewarming gift for her. We’d just pulled into the gravel parking lot when she got a call from her mom, so I made the whole silent “I’ll-go-in-and-meet-you-in-a-second” gesture while she took the call.
I’ve been going to Wilbur’s Country Store since I was a kid, but hadn’t been back in over a year. The creaking wood floor, the penny candy, the housecat in the window next to the space heater with a wire pet fence around it hadn’t changed, but there was one notable difference--Wilbur had been replaced by a woman.
She was about my age, with long dark hair and an accent that definitely was more “old Jersey” than “New Jersey.” In the few minutes of small talk as I browsed the well-dusted shelves, we established that she was Wilbur’s daughter, had just moved here, and that she’d been willed the store after his passing. I offered condolences, she said thank you for my kindness, and told me she was considering staying stateside once her father’s affairs were settled.
It was about this time that I settled on a Betty Crocker cookbook for my sister in law and was walking it to the register. To be polite, I introduced myself, extending my right hand, while placing the cookbook with my well tanned, non-ring bearing, still slightly swollen left hand on the counter.
“Hi, I’m Scott.”
“Betty,” she replied.
“Like Betty Crocker?” I joked, glancing at the cookbook.
“Yes, like Betty Crocker,” she laughed.
“Well then, I should have you autograph this!”
In all fairness, I really was just being polite, so I was surprised to see her open the cookbook and begin to write down her phone number and the words “I hope you...” on the dust jacket.
Just then, the little silver bell above the screen door chimed and my beautiful wife walked in, placing her hand on my shoulder on a familiar gesture while Betty’s face clouded over. Betty quickly completed the note, closed the book, rang up my purchase, and gave my wife a cold glance as she wished us a “good afternoon.”
It turned out to be a strange housewarming gift. Imagine my sister-in-law’s face when she opened the cookbook, only to read the inscription:
“I hope you... burn down your kitchen!” --Betty Crocker
908-362-8833
That’s the reason Betty Crocker hates me.
It was one of those Sunday afternoons when time doesn’t matter. My wife and I (did I mention I got married?) stopped at a little country store on the way back to her sister’s place, hoping to find a housewarming gift for her. We’d just pulled into the gravel parking lot when she got a call from her mom, so I made the whole silent “I’ll-go-in-and-meet-you-in-a-second” gesture while she took the call.
I’ve been going to Wilbur’s Country Store since I was a kid, but hadn’t been back in over a year. The creaking wood floor, the penny candy, the housecat in the window next to the space heater with a wire pet fence around it hadn’t changed, but there was one notable difference--Wilbur had been replaced by a woman.
She was about my age, with long dark hair and an accent that definitely was more “old Jersey” than “New Jersey.” In the few minutes of small talk as I browsed the well-dusted shelves, we established that she was Wilbur’s daughter, had just moved here, and that she’d been willed the store after his passing. I offered condolences, she said thank you for my kindness, and told me she was considering staying stateside once her father’s affairs were settled.
It was about this time that I settled on a Betty Crocker cookbook for my sister in law and was walking it to the register. To be polite, I introduced myself, extending my right hand, while placing the cookbook with my well tanned, non-ring bearing, still slightly swollen left hand on the counter.
“Hi, I’m Scott.”
“Betty,” she replied.
“Like Betty Crocker?” I joked, glancing at the cookbook.
“Yes, like Betty Crocker,” she laughed.
“Well then, I should have you autograph this!”
In all fairness, I really was just being polite, so I was surprised to see her open the cookbook and begin to write down her phone number and the words “I hope you...” on the dust jacket.
Just then, the little silver bell above the screen door chimed and my beautiful wife walked in, placing her hand on my shoulder on a familiar gesture while Betty’s face clouded over. Betty quickly completed the note, closed the book, rang up my purchase, and gave my wife a cold glance as she wished us a “good afternoon.”
It turned out to be a strange housewarming gift. Imagine my sister-in-law’s face when she opened the cookbook, only to read the inscription:
“I hope you... burn down your kitchen!” --Betty Crocker
908-362-8833
