I know I have biceps. Well, not the rippling, bulging, sculpted kind, of course. Just the basic edition that is usually packaged and present for everyday necessity.
I think I have a firm grip. All that needlework and crocheting and hand-writing must've seen to that, I assume.
Apparently these are not enough to best the store-bought canned jars, as I am reluctantly made to accept nowadays.
Before arthritis set in, before the elbow tendonitis, no jar could hold up her activity by refusing to be opened. My mom could wrest the tightest lid of Bournvita™ that my dad managed to twist in place.
I admit to the evil side of me scoffing with the self-assurance of youth at that time, with some sort of noble resolution to never ask for help opening jars if I can help it.
And then, life happened. When a certain stage is reached, somehow the jars get together and conspire. They learn to taunt and tease. They defy the Bottle Opener Method, the Butter Knife Method, the Hot Water Method, the Tap With The Spoon Method, the Grip With A Gripper And Twist Yourself Into A Pretzel Method...
And so here I am, eyeing the innocent-looking jars of Hearts of Palm and Roasted Red Peppers for an exciting new recipe, slightly irritated that I didn't plan ahead and now have to await the arrival and assistance of the dedicated in-house Jar Opener... C'est la vie.
Labels: random musings