This began as a comment on Kys awesome blog aptly called Stir-Fry Awesomeness. I thought it was too good to remain as a comment and decided to expand it into a post that I hope you’ll take a gander at while in goose-neck position, with head bowed over laptop, or in red-throated loon position, with head and neck habitually pointed slightly upward, gaze affixed parallel to the screen.
Just follow the words to the end of this sentence to read the inflated commentary about the drain that required an angioplasty this past Sunday.
My brainwaves are clogged after helping my husband snake the drain. It’s a lot sexier sounding than it really was.
What a mess! Mouse droppings from a rodent era of days-gone-by scattered beneath the sink along with wet lards of meatloaf, the villain in the compelling “mystery of the clogged sink.”
After my husband determined the clog was localized in the drainpipe underneath the kitchen sink, it was time to plunge into action.
We each grabbed a bucket and started scooping murky sink water with chunks of dinners-past, and then dumping the muck into the toilet in the powder room. Not a pretty sight. Once the sink had been adequately drained, it was time to head into the dark recesses of cabinetry beneath the sink, where I removed boxes of dishwasher powder (there were three of them), sponges, Brillo pads, and other unidentified over the counter products that somehow ended up under the counter.
As my husband sank to his knees, he looked at me, as if it would be the last time I’d see him, sat on the floor with said bucket, placed it beneath the drain, and then removed the curved pipe from the main drain vessel. The word Titanic came to mind, as water gushed into the bucket and around it, soaking my husband and the dark underworld below the sink.
“Abandon sink,” I did not yell, while chunks of fat deposit plopped into the pail, as my brave husband dredged gunk from the drainpipe with his bare hands. It will be awhile before I allow him to touch me again.
Once the spewing and plopping ceased, the reattaching of parts and cleaning of sink muck began with grunts of disgust and mutterings of “Oh, God, no. Just kill me now.”
Thirty-minutes later, a dull glare shone from the floor and counter. I shielded my eyes, while reviving my husband, yet another exaggerated falsehood, although the kitchen looked, somewhat, passable, attaining a level of adequacy never previously achieved.
“Better than going to the gym,” I said.
My husband just glared at me and left the kitchen to go upstairs to take a shower.
Lessons learned: Run hot water onto fat saturated baking dishes before the fat coagulates. If the drain clogs, wait until Monday and call a plumber.