I open the door just enough to look inside the room at three girls performing pageantry. Then I say loud even for me, "I scream. You scream. We all scream for ice cream."
They look stunned, and I run back to the kitchen. Like baby ducks, they follow.
I've paid too much for a big shiny machine to take the place of an old microwave which doesn't work, hasn't worked for at least a year. Do you need something you haven't used in a year? Obviously not. It makes sense that you would replace that unneeded space waster with an even more obnoxious contraption of which is admittedly less useful. It only makes one thing, or four it says, and I've decided to lean into the absurdity. Or, in this case, pour a mixture of half and half, sweetened condensed milk, and vanilla paste directly into what looks like it could electrocute.
The push of a button and forty-one minutes produce a substance pretty dang close to what I hoped it could be, but the party is obviously what was needed.
Today I am grateful for sisters, little plastic bowls, chocolate syrup, and to learn there is no reason to wear shoes on your feet when you have a crown on your head.
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