The Connie Clone

I had a strange dream the other night. An evil genius had cloned my wife, and I couldn't tell which was which. They were both beautiful and shapely, both laughed at my jokes, both could dance like nobody's business. I knew I had to choose, the future of the free world was at stake. But which was the evil spy?

One Connie cooked a pot of soup. She threw in some vegetables from the pantry, added a few dashes of cayenne pepper, even tossed in some leftovers. It turned out great. As always. Then the other Connie added butter to a frying pan, cracked some eggs into a bowl and scrambled them, then measured out a quarter cup of chopped onions and tipped them in. And I shot her.

My Connie doesn't measure when she cooks. It's a dash of this, a handful of that. Drives me crazy. When I cook, I follow directions. If I change the recipe, I mark down the amounts so I can prepare it the same way the next time, or make further adjustments. I'm a scientist at heart. And I love my wife. (And I may watch too much Alias.)


Blog Tag: Chatter