I love my spatula. No, I'm not some animated

I love my spatula. No, I'm not some animated submarine sponge - I just truly appreciate the fine craftmanship, the heft, the scooping power of a finely made spatula. Sure, you're
excited about your ladle, or torqued up about your wooden spoon, but a spatula? That's the "helen" of cooking instruments. Flat, and long, Metal or plastic. It's perfect.
The spatula remained on the kitchen table. Badly lit and surrounded by flour and broken eggshell. The heat from the oven radiated through the room and I could barely
breathe.Copious amounts of sweat ran down my face as I made my way towards the fridge.Nothing here but bananas,every square inch filled with bananas."Found something?",I heard
someone behind me. I turned around and screamed. It was a banana. And it was talking. "What?! What's so scary?" asked the banana. The fridge door closed slowly and another banana
bit the dust. "You really need to get a maid", said the 2nd Banana spitting out the dust. "Are you really the 2nd Banana or are you just playin 2nd Banana", I asked to buy time to
edge toward the door. The 2nd banana noticed my attempted escape and threw his peel on the floor. I slid down the hall and through the window, falling though a striped awning and
A series of balconies before landing in the bushes below. I got up, unscathed. Then I walked home and opened the door as usual, finding everything normal. Home, sweet home! Tea
as usual was served at brillig but my new girl served it up with some ghastly lady fingers she claimed were all the rage in White Chapel. They were tasty but I let her go anyway.
There she had the time of her young life, just her, the lady fingers, and a collection of boxed wines. May France forever remember their dedication.

Started: 2013-08-10 12:48:09
Finished: 2016-08-04 11:09:17

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