Strawberry Fireworks
The plan was simple: homemade frozen strawberry daiquiris for the 4th of July. Stay home and day-drink. A holiday well spent.
The first hint of trouble comes when I try to turn cubed ice into crushed ice. I only needed two cups of crushed ice; I ended up with four because measuring ice pre-crush is impossible.
"I guess we'll make two batches."
Which was the plan all along, except this meant that by the time we were done, our blender was full to the top. The six shots of rum must have melted the ice enough to squeeze all the strawberries in there.
I successfully pour half of the blender jar into two highball glasses despite there being no pour spout. My wife compliments my skill.
Then she says, "Should we put the rest of it in the fridge? Or the freezer?"
It's already a little on the runny side, so I decide to put it in the freezer. There's not a ton of space in the freezer, but I set it on the top shelf next to the ice maker. I try to shut the door, but it stays ajar half an inch. I give it a shove, and it closes. My wife and I give each other a thumbs-up. She starts to clean the kitchen, which is her chore for the day. I start to play Mass Effect, which is mine.
(I promise my wife and I split the housework. Mine was done, minus the dusting, which I have been putting off for two months.)
Approximately half an hour later, my glass is empty. "Is it time for a refill?" I ask. It was, or so we thought. I open the freezer door to retrieve the blender jar. The blender jar, however, has ideas of its own, and it enters free-fall state. I watch helplessly as I witness the imminent disaster that is unfolding before me. I probably squeaked in sheer terror.
The explosion of frozen strawberry and rum that ensued has been likened to the eruption of Mount Saint Helens in 1980, and resulted in equivalent amounts of property damage.
I'm not exaggerating. The rubber lid of the blender jar had either caved instantly under the pressure, or had been bribed to look the other way as events unfolded. The result was sweet, crimson deliciousness splattered all over the kitchen, half of which had just been cleaned.
When I say "all over", I mean, "this townhouse has 12-foot high ceilings for some stupid reason, and yet I still needed to retreive a ladder to wipe up the strawberry mess that had very real dreams of escaping Earth's gravitational pull.
Needless to say, the daiquiri, which was now all over the kitchen floor (and on the cabinets, and above the cabinets, and on the stove, and on the fridge, and under the fridge, and on the ceiling, and on my pants, and otherwise dotted over half the house), was unsalvageable. It took nearly an hour to clean the mess.
Next year I'm sticking with mojitos.