i owned a magic condo

or so the story goes …

but not really. My husband says I did because all kinds of things happened (or did not happen) there, which he claims are unnatural. Especially in the kitchen. And I would say something like: “Really? That never happened to me! β€” I’ve never experienced that when I made . . .  I didn’t know that! β€” Not when I cooked . . .  You bake it that long?”

you get the idea 😁

“Aah, yes,” he responds, “you had the good fortune to cook | live in the magic condo (not “A” but “THE” =). ” Perhaps I did own a magic condo!

it’s a funny thing between us

I had no idea it’s unusual for pasta not to blow up in soup in the fridge β€” soup pasta in the condo never did that. The broiler worked better with the oven door slightly open, propped by a wooden spoon. One of many, many spoons. I could go on but shall not.

so when we differ about anything

house or kitchen|cooking related, he offers the “Oh, at the magic condo. That’s right, I forgot” diatribe.  πŸ™„ Mind you, not that I cooked much in the MC, wasn’t allowed (story, maybe, for another day, along with a grape juice tale), but I knew about cooking and foods. I have always loved food. So, after all, maybe it was special. Or, as I believe: we live (or eat πŸ˜‰) what we bring to the table.

special is as special does