Warning: This post is kind of gross.
I no longer have in-laws, but the mother of a long-time boyfriend used to chastise me for what I thought was quite an innocuous habit: You know the butter tray in the door of your fridge? I tended to not close the little sliding door over it. (Who has time to mess with stuff like that?) My boyfriend's mother really disliked this. She would sometimes say, in what I thought was a dramatic fashion, "Who left the butter door open?" even though I think we all knew it was probably me. I tried to remember to close it, but I really didn't think it was necessary — I'd never in 30-some years had a butter-door-related mishap. I figured her concern was just an older lady's quirk.
Well, on Sunday morning I learned a lesson. I opened the fridge door and my glass butter dish came crashing down into a great many pieces, big and small, one of which ricocheted off of a vein on the top of my foot, sparking a flood of blood and a trip to the emergency room. Just to give you a sense of the scope, the split second after the incident, I looked down and thought for a moment, Did I just break a bottle of tomato juice? The amount of blood was far greater than any I have ever spilled before. As I tried to stop the bleeding (no easy task), I vaguely realized that Quentin Tarantino might think the red patterns on the gold-colored tile were rather beautiful.
I'm pretty sure my former boyfriend's mother will never happen upon this blog, but if she ever does: I'm sorry, Barbara. You were right all along!