Last week during the peach butter mayhem this embarrassingly dirty oven mitt repeatedly wrecked my roll.
To be honest it's not really Mr. Oven Mitt's fault, you see, the problem is that I only have one. I've been partnering him along with dishtowels that dangle dangerously close to lit burners or in my peach case, maneuvering large vessels of boiling water and dishes of molten puree. This kind of jury-rigging gets old, particularly during fits of cursing when the your damp dishtowel fails to protect your tender digits from superheated Pyrex. So with a dammit of disgust I whipped up these boys
from bits of an abandoned project and the straps of a unwanted tank top, and I must say I feel a lot better and so do my digits.
To be honest it's not really Mr. Oven Mitt's fault, you see, the problem is that I only have one. I've been partnering him along with dishtowels that dangle dangerously close to lit burners or in my peach case, maneuvering large vessels of boiling water and dishes of molten puree. This kind of jury-rigging gets old, particularly during fits of cursing when the your damp dishtowel fails to protect your tender digits from superheated Pyrex. So with a dammit of disgust I whipped up these boys
from bits of an abandoned project and the straps of a unwanted tank top, and I must say I feel a lot better and so do my digits.
No comments:
Post a Comment