The Spice Rack
So, the other day I found a spice rack. A nice solid wooden structure with a beautiful dark brown finish and room enough for a large variety of spices. With this spice rack, I reckoned, I could probably hold enough spices to cook a diverse group of dishes that would satisfy all the possible cultural groups that appeared at my table as guests. I could prepare tasty well-spiced meals for Italians, Indonesians, Japanese, Persians, Pakistanis, Greeks, Jamaicans, East Africans, West Africans, South Africans, North Africans, Arabs, and even have enough room for the gruelling epicurean demands of Dutch guests . . . well, ok, I'd have the sprinkle of salt that the Dutch occasionally dash upon their potatoes.
Excited, I brought the spice rack home to show my beautiful wife.
"What is that?" she demanded.
"A spice rack, " I said, surprised by the hard edge in her voice.
"We already have a spice rack," she stated increduously.
"Yes," I admitted, "but this one is bigger." Actually, I only said "yes" the part about "this one is bigger" I kept in my head.
"We don't need a spice rack," she said, her hand on her hip.
"Yeah," my enthusiasm was drowning in her logic, "but we could use this to store other things."
"Like what?" she asked.
"Uh," my mind worked - cd's? No, too big. - soup cans? No, we don't eat much soup. - Figurines? No, we don't have figurines that small. Something! Yes, that's it!, "We could find something to put on it."
"Where did you find that thing?" her beautiful brown eyes tearing the spice rack apart as if it was personally responsible for the invention of menstruating.
"I found it," I shrugged.
I had found it in the dumpster at work. I imagined that if I told her that this was the case she would not only throw it off the balcony, but me as well. This, despite the facts that I had wiped it down with industrial paper towel and that the thing had been nestled snuggly on a clean-looking piece of cardboard. Women, however, do not understand this sort of thing. All they hear is the word "dumpster" and they immediately associate that word with all the nasty stinky rotting disgusting smells that they had witnessed when rushing past dumpsters to wash their hands. Because, you know, women are always washing their hands (with both soap and water!)
"You know," I said, "I found it."
"Take it back to where it came from," she said, her voice implying that the spice rack had ascended to earth from the dark depths of hell itself.
Frankly, I was a little hurt. After all, this was a nice solid wooden structure with a beautiful dark brown finish and I had found it and had not paid a dime for it! "Don't you think it's nice, though?"
"No," her eyes had shown more mercy towards my worn and rancid-smelling work boots.
"Fine," I muttered, "I'll . . . I'll . . . " I sighed, how could I? "I'll throw it out."
"Good, because it is not coming into this apartment," she turned and went inside.
I looked at the beautiful spice rack one last time, said my goodbye and reluctantly placed it beside our recycling bin.
When garbage day came, I somehow forgot to place the spice rack with the rest of the trash. And so the spice rack stands proudly and beautifully on our metal balcony awaiting its day of redemption.
Do not worry, my spice rack, your day will come, your day will come. I just need a plan.