This story is smashing

Iheard the smash way before I saw the victim of the smashing. “What was that?” I yelled into the kitchen.

“Nothing,” said my husband.

“It sounds like something,” I yelled back.

“No, it’s nothing,” he insisted. Having determined that “nothing” is generally what people say when it is actually something but they don’t want you to think it is much of anything, I decided it was worth investigating.

I entered the kitchen and looked at the floor. It was clear that something big and white had, in fact, met an untimely death on the kitchen floor, but it was broken into so many pieces, it was impossible to tell what it had been before it met it’s unfortunate end.

“What is that?” I asked, watching my husband try to pick up the larger broken pieces before he could sweep up the itty bitty broken pieces. The dog stood in the doorway looking on. It was possible he had been witness to the whole smashing, but he wasn’t going to rat out the smasher. He knew which side of the bread his kibble was buttered on.

My husband stood up holding a piece of something porcelain.

“A dinner plate.”

I grabbed my heart and staggered back.

“A what?” I said in disbelief.

“A dinner plate,” he repeated, avoiding my eyes. I looked at the shattered remains of my perfect set of 12 dinner dishes, now reduced to 11 and shook my head.

“I bobbled it,” he said.

“You BOBBLED it?” I repeated. I took a deep breath. “You know, in some countries you could be arrested for that and charged with wanton plate breaking.”

“Are you plate shaming me?” he said.

“Just a little,” I said.

I knew I was being hard on him, but this was a tragedy of porcelain proportions. It had taken me years to finally have a set of 12 dinner plates, 12 salad plates, 12 cereal bowls and 12 dessert plates all in the same pattern. After years of my kids accidentally smashing plates and bowls, I thought now that it was just two of us, the plate smashing days were behind us. Of course, there would not be 10 people coming over to have dinner with us any time soon. And in the grand scheme of things happening in the world, having only 11 dinner plates was most definitely not that important. It was just above discovering a moth ate your sweater, but behind global warming.

Still, it was important to me, and I wasn’t sure a plate from the same pattern was still available. It was possible it had been discontinued and I might have to find a lesser, lookalike plate. Another plate posing as my plate. Or maybe I could just find another husband. That would work, too.

Meanwhile, as my husband picked up the broken pieces of my pantry dreams, I decided I couldn’t be mad at him for something that was an accident.

“It’s OK, honey,” I finally said. “It was just a plate. It’s not a big deal.”

“Phew,” he said. “So, would this be a good time to tell you about the bowl I broke last week?”