There’s no use crying over spilled milk. Really? Because I found the cry I had over spilled milk  quite helpful. And if you can’t imagine crying over spilled milk, then you’ve never had the handle on an old ice cream pail that serves as your family’s milk bucket give way mid-pour. I, on the other hand, have experienced this twice in the last two-weeks. Yesterday morning I watched in horrified denial as the scene unfolded in cascading sheets of milk and coffee in painfully slow frames, while somewhere a dimension away someone was yelling “Oh NO!! Not again!” Oh, and the !@#$ thing was full when the cheap plastic handle tore away from the bucket.

It took every bath towel in the house, and a few dirty clothes just to contain the mess on the floor. Even as I was trying desperately to contain the milk on the floor, a steady trickle was coming from my kitchen prep cart. The whole thing, the utensil drawer, everything it it, and all the stored food on the racks were soaked. I had just finished folding clothes, doing morning dishes and vacuuming and was getting ready to go to work. For me, that involves taking my coffee upstairs to my home office, where I develop digital media solutions for clients like Countryside Publications. But this morning, I was going to be late for work. Once I had blanket the kitchen floor with towels and removed the utensils from the prep cart drawer. I went to my room and closed the door.

I was already frustrated by the glitches and goblins that come with hardware and software upgrades. I’m in the middle of both. I had just finished a difficult Windows 7 upgrade and installed some new hardware. It took more time than I had anticipated. When the screen says that the installation might take several house, that’s the truth. The whole thing set me back about two days when all was said and done. I was already frustrated, but I was feeling pretty good by the time I was getting my morning coffee together to go up to the office. Then the handle broke, and so did the wall of reason that had been holding back the frustration. I went to my room. Looked out the window, said a few Hail Marys and indulged a tear or two to carry the pent-up sorry for myself flow away. I felt better afterwards, and Wayne helped me get everything in order when he came in from the barn. From now on, we’re using a two-quart Mason jar with a steel handle that Wayne’s mother gave us. I think it belonged to one of his grandmothers. It means we’ll have to fill the jar every other day (we go through a lot of milk around here), but at least we know the old-fashioned metal handle will hold.

The moral of the story: if you have to cry, doing so over spilled milk is as good a reason as any. And now, without further ado, I present my tear-inducing mess. (Get a tissue.)

Containing the mess

The utensil drawer and the pan that catches drippings from the cutting board above it

Behind the dish cabinent