Nice To Meet You, Kitchen Sink

Last night as I was washing some lunch dishes, my mind was wandering and my gaze was staring blankly out the window into the neighbor's pretty little garden. Lost in a lovely reverie in which I was being handed the Printz award in front of thousands of adoring fans, I was unhappily startled back to reality when I heard the most horrible noise and smelled the most horrible smell I could possibly have imagined at that moment.

My sink, which is normally a happy sort of sink, had apparently decided that it had had enough of grinding up our leftover quinoa and raw vegetables and fruit peels, and so started spewing said items back up into the sink onto my freshly washed tupperware. As I fiddled with the disposal switch and cleaned up the mess, I happened to look at the sink- I mean really look at it- much more closely than normal, and I noticed that my sink has an actual name. The In-Sink-Erator. Six months living in this place and I finally know my sink's name. And I couldn't help but think In-Sink-Erator was a fitting title for such a sink- usually mild-mannered and bland, but will blow shit up with a vengeance if you mess with it.

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