Dear Kim,
It’s me…your Pampered Chef Pizza Stone. I’m writing on behalf of all of your cook and bakeware that you packed away weeks ago in preparation for your impending move. Which is two weeks from today, by the way.
You THOUGHT that you’d be getting ahead by packing so early, didn’t you? You THOUGHT you were uber and smiled smugly as you taped the lid. You wielded your bubble wrap and packing tape like a real champ.
Well, fat-ass, as the song goes, “Who’s Sorry Now?” Remember the sinking feeling you had when you tried to look for a baking sheet to heat up your Margaritaville Calypso Coconut Shrimp for Survivor? We had a good laugh at that one.
Enterprising girl that you are, you thought that you’d merely improvise and make a cookie sheet out of a few layers of aluminum foil. Except…it’s here with me.
In the box.
At the bottom of the stack.
So now you’ve resorted to eating caramel and chocolate coated apples from the candy store around the corner, convincing yourself that you’re eating real fruit. And muttering publicly that you’d be having salads if you didn’t pack away your stuff.
The last time I checked, Blondie, (if that is what your current state can be called) you don’t need a cooling rack to make a salad. Just FYI.
See you in two weeks, sucker.
Fondly,
Pizza Stone.
