The Kitchen Sink

When I was a little girl I was walking on my kitchen countertops.  I was too old to be doing such tom foolery, but my age has never really stopped me in any of my acts of tom foolery.   Our kitchen on Seminole Lane was a U-shaped orange kitchen in every sense of the word.  Orange countertops, orange linoleum, orange canisters, orange, orange, orange.    I had a method of walking on the countertops.  If you imagine an upside down U, I started at the bottom, next to the refrigerator, made the turn at the top of the upside down U, then I’d step on the center of the stovetop, make the turn to the last leg of the U, walk the dangerously narrow ledge in front of the sink, down to the end of the countertop and then reverse it.  Perhaps it would help if I drew you a picture since that was really hard to describe.

While I paraded across the formica, I imagined the floor was a pool of bubbling, gurgling hot lava and I kept my footing sure.  Then the lava morphed into a swamp of murky water with snapping crocodiles leaping at my pinkie toes and I focused on my mission. 

I became a bit over-confident.   Being the expert countertop walker that I was, I needed to up the ante.   Maybe not look down.  Maybe not use the upper cabinets to steady my hand as I traversed the course of the countertops.   I was a tight rope walker, thrilling my fans below as the gasped at my speed.  Then I was a gymnast on the balance beam, leaping, the regaining my balance before my big finish. 

 I was at the very treacherous narrow ledge of the sink.  I was making my way across as I had numerous times before, when suddenly I began to lose my balance.  I couldn’t fall into the mire of snapping crocodiles or fall from the balance beam and disappoint my audience, so I went for it, taking a huge step to clear the sink and grab hold of the cabinets for security, when suddenly I felt my bare foot sink into a mushy, sticky, blackberry cobbler sitting on the counter next to the sink.

I don’t remember the rest.  I’ve tried purposely to forget.

Something to the effect that my sister and dad laughed mercilessly at my misfortune, and like bullies in a school yard they began chanting, “Cobbler foot, cobbler foot, Angel is a cobbler foot”  until I cried like a baby.  Then they continued.

I have never walked the countertops since.  But it hasn’t stopped me from loving cobbler.

So I stand corrected.  I do have a nickname.  Thank goodness, it didn’t stick (no pun intended).