Winter came back while I was sleeping.
On Tuesday, History_Pig wrote about his lack of home handyman skills. I’m also knackless in this category. I consider myself to have pretty good hands, they work for drawing, guitar playing and launching jump shots (well there’s not much jump in my jumpshot anymore), but when it comes to handling little screws or nuts (I know) or swinging a hammer in a manner that won’t hopelessly bend a nail, fuggitabowtiit. I’m also terrified of electricity, unless it involves toasters and forks. Fortunately, here at casa keller we benefit from a reversal of traditional gender roles. Rebecca loves to fix stuff. She replaced our doorbell this fall and is fighting our crappy closet doors to a draw. She comes up with these ingenious twine and bailing wire solutions to problems that would give Rube Goldberg a woody. If she’s stumped she calls in Dean, the retired nieghbor down the street who is the god of handiness for a consultation. She however is totally lacking in kitchen sense. She learned to cook from her mother, who I once saw throw a frozen chuck roast in an electric frying pan turned up to high and leave it while the family went to church. Amazingly, it didn’t turn out half bad, but seriously?!? So Beck’s theory is that a man’s place is in the kitchen. And that’s just fine with me. Although I think the daughters would tell you I’m falling down on my end of the deal lately. But that’s another story.