Same Old, Same Old

My family has… interesting ways of doing things.

Take this morning, for example.

My brother and I sat at the kitchen table, nibbling at our morning bowl of cereal. Our father was at work by this time, but our mother was upstairs, doing who-knows-what.

In an instant, there was a muffled boom that shook dust from the ceiling. We shook with the house.

“Wonner wha’appen?” my brother mummbled through a mouthful of cereal. I shrugged.

A few minutes later, my mother came staggering into the room. Her face was blackened with soot, her hair standing on end like she’d sprayed it with hairspray while in a wind tunnel (which wouldn’t really surprise me, frankly).

She took a few steadying deep breaths, and we watched her expectantly. She held up a charred, twisted piece of plastic.

“I had trouble melting the butter again,” she huffed in exhaustion.

We silently nodded in understanding and turned back to our breakfast.

Same old, same old.

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