I'm sure you're wondering what kinds of emergencies crop up in the Fescue household. Well, they're grim: the other day, the two halves of my cocktail shaker got stuck together.
Initially, I wasn't concerned. I ran it under hot water for a while. Then I got out the rubber jar-opener thingy to give me a better grip. Then I put it in the freezer to cool it down (on the vaguely-remembered principle that metal contracts when it's cold). Of course, I promptly forgot it was there--but upon rediscovery, days later, the thing still wouldn't budge. So I tried more hot water; the submersion method this time. Then I tried to prise apart the two halves with a very fine knife blade. Then I tried to push them apart with a flat-headed screwdriver. Then I sprayed the entire thing with WD-40. Then I repeated all of the above.
At last I sank down on the kitchen floor, massaging my nearly sprained hand. Forget getting food caught in one's throat and dying for lack of a Heimlich maneouver: rebellious inanimate objects are the real downside to living alone. Would it, I wondered, be totally inappropriate for me to take the shaker into work and ask for the assistance of a male colleague? Someone with bigger, stronger hands?
I didn't even consider buying a new shaker: this one is perfect, and has done noble service over the past decade. I bought it at Williams-Sonoma on my way home from work my first New Year's Eve after college, in preparation for the party I was throwing that night. I remember being shocked at its price (some $35 back in 1997), but I've since discovered that Williams-Sonoma carries better cocktail shakers than just about anyone--elsewhere the things tend to be cheaper, but are always more poorly made.
I set it aside. Then I came back to it. Finally, to the relief of all (well, me), something worked: filling the thing up inside with warm water and lots of dishsoap.
And all I can say is, thank God I'm still on vacation. Crises like these take a lot out of a girl.