I’m sure you know which ones I’m talking about. The semi-bulk bags you get from the grocery store? If you have only three, they’re no big deal. When you have five of them, they start becoming a nuisance. When you become a food blogger, they breed like viruses, start becoming self-aware, and begin to plot world domination.
When I was heavily pregnant with DS, DH and I watched “Chef at Home” like our lives depended on it. And while I coveted his ginormous TV pantry, which was approximately the same size as my kitchen at the time, I scoffed at all the things in the mason jars as a cutesy waste of space. You see, when you’re an extremely busy, 9 month pregnant working lady with an apartment kitchen, you become a gourmet chef using just the ol S&P, garlic powder, and Italian seasoning.
Fast forward 5 years, a food blog, and a near-death-experience by avalanche of herb baggies (where I relived a full season of Chef at Home’s pantry flashing before my eyes instead of my life). Chef Michael Smith is a FRICKIN’ GENIUS.
Or so I thought.
So nobody else goes through this grief unawares… THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DECIDE TO BE LIKE MICHAEL SMITH.
Yes. Your kitchen spontaneously kersplodes.
It starts small. First it’s, “I hate these frigging baggies. I know! I am going to do like Michael Smith. It makes sense. I’m a food blogger. It’ll be way easier for me to measure out herbs from a mason jar than a bag anyway!”
Then you’re like, “Gee these jars take up more room. My little mini side cabinet isn’t going to cut it any more. I know! They’re so cute now in jars, I’m going to put them in my corner display cabinet where all my nice pottery is currently sitting. I should move that pottery into my empty hutch sitting in the dining room anyway!”
Then you’re in the dining room, and you think, “Gee, I should find room for all this bake-ware while I’m at it, cause I’ve been lazy and left it on the dining room table, which is currently doubling as my photo studio. I’m having guests over next week anyway. I know! I’ll put it in that one drawer next to my fridge that can’t hold a lot of weight, which is currently only holding stale marshmallows and a bunch of boxes of tea.”
Then you’re like, “I know! If I’m putting my herbs in this nice display thing, I should put some of my other things like shredded coconut and stuff from my pantry too…”
The next thing you know, it’s four hours later on K-day and you’re in full shell-shock, wandering around the kitchen holding an old wooden spoon like it’s a severed limb. There’s a santa hat sitting on your chair and you had no idea that there were so many Lego men taking up residence in your lesser-used drawers. And even though you don’t like the taste of rum, the leftover Christmas bottle you rescued from behind the microwave is starting to croon to you like Ol’ Blue Eyes.
You realize that you’re in deep doo-doo and you whine about it to your friends on Facebook (who promptly tell you: #blogpost).
Your five year old comes home from school on the bus and lectures you when he gets a load of the kitchen. “Mommy!” he takes a deep breath and shakes his head disgustedly. “You made a HUGE mess.”
“I KNOW,” you say, somewhat ironically because these are the words of wisdom that got you in trouble all day. But what you don’t know is how you’re going to explain to your husband why you’re eating take-out on the couch tonight.
Sure enough, he gets home, takes one look and says “What the hell happened here?”
“It’s Chef Michael Smith’s fault,” you tell him. And then you make yourself very busy ordering pizza.
Update (24 hours later): (he ain’t even mad. Cheers, Chef! You’re cool. And I loved Chef at Home.)