I cleaned out my fridge and freezer the other day and noticed I had a ton of gallon ziplock baggies full of chicken/turkey/duck/pheasant carcasses in the freezer and some celery, carrots, onions and parsley that didn't have any plans, so I made two giant stock pots full of broth. When I picked Steve up at the airport, he felt like doo-doo, so instead of letting it cool as much as I should have, I poured it (still hot!) into a bunch of giant mason jars, buried them in a snow bank, and went to bed.

Tonight, the plan was to bring it in and aliquot it into 1.75 cup (= 1 can) and half cup portions, and put it in the freezer. Izzy, as always when I am in the kitchen, sat transfixed at my feet. I was doing fine until I picked up a half gallon jar. Apparently the temperature extremes I'd put it through the night before were too much, because the bottom fell off and the stock poured out all over my kitchen counter (soaking some magazines, a couple plugged-in phone chargers, a stack of napkins, a roll of paper towels...), it poured down my cabinets and INTO my cabinets and silverware drawer, getting all over my dishes. It soaked my pants, socks and suede shoes, and made the mother of all puddles on the kitchen floor.

I screamed, Steve came down from his sick bed to make sure I wasn't bleeding, handed me a roll of broth-soaked paper towels, and went back upstairs shaking his head and coughing. Izzy wagged her tail and proceeded to lick my floor and cabinets "clean" while I took care of the other details. I was still laughing when she finished, laid down with a contented sigh, and belched, which set me off all over again.

I told Steve that it is only the most loving of wives who would perfume herself with chicken soup before going to bed with her husband when he is sick. Would that he were as impressed as I am amused by the whole thing!