My wonderful step-daughter gave the Crankee Yankee (my husband, and father of said step-daughter) and I a great Christmas gift one year–a spice rack that not only holds up to 54 standard jars of spices, but the drawers also fold down, making it very space-saving. You see, the Crankee Yankee never met a spice or seasoning he didn’t like, plus he cooks, so we have more spices than decent people should have.
Upon receiving such a useful and welcome gift, we sat right down and started filling out the little sticky labels that go on the fronts of the drawers so that we would know exactly where each spice lives….you may see where I’m going with this next.
However–as with so many good intentions, this one went south almost immediately. My first mistake was having the Crankee Yankee fill out the blank sticky labels for the spices that didn’t have printed labels. You know, like Eye of Newt, Dragon Toenails, Powdered Horned Toad Entrails, etc. Then there came the placement of the spices in the rack. Now, if left to this task on my own today, I’d have parked all those spices alphabetically. (I know how OCD this sounds, but there you go.) But things didn’t go that way at all. All I can think of is that sheer madness overtook us both at the thought of all those spice jars finally having permanent homes.
So here’s the status of the wonderful spice rack these days–NOTHING IS WHERE IT SHOULD BE. Labels? HAH! Fat lot of good they are. If I had a dime for each time I went huffing and swearing through each and every dang drawer to find, say, Cayenne Pepper; I could retire right now. You may ask why I don’t just spend an afternoon and reorganize the racks and relabel. Great idea, and a sensible person would do just that.
But I won’t; I just know it. Because what will happen is this: I will go looking for the onion powder in the drawer labeled Onion Powder, and that prehistoric alligator part of my brain will say “Ugh, urgh, ooonk, snarf, urmm!” Which in modern day English means, ‘no, it’s not there, stupid! It’s in the next drawer down where it USED to be!’
The hell with it; I give up. If you ever come to our house for dinner, don’t be surprised if your baked chicken tastes like Eye of Newt.