My mom would wash the kitchen floor now and then on Saturdays, on her hands and knees. It looked beautiful when it was done. We all knew that we should try as best we could to keep that floor as clean as possible at least for a while. She also cleaned the rest of the kitchen until it all glistened and shined.
My dad went fishing almost every Saturday and on this particular spring day came home late in the afternoon and strolled into the kitchen from the back door, which lead right into the kitchen. His muddy boots which he failed to take off, made a trail from the door to the kitchen stove. My dad had picked wild mushrooms that day and was eager to cook them up on the gas range immediately. So here he is, standing at the range, muddy fishing boots on, frying mushrooms which are splattering grease all over the newly cleaned range.
Enter my mom. Heated words were exchanged between this great couple who rarely fought over anything. The battle of words continued until my dad reached his boiling point. In one seamless motion, he shut off the frying mushrooms, walked over to the back door, and propped it open with one hand. He then flung the frying pan and mushrooms out the door into our back yard, which was four feet away from the door.
They were still sizzling when I went outside to retrieve them.
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