If You Can't Take the Heat

My sister, Susie, was cleaning out her kitchen and graciously offered a bunch of her culinary offal, which we gladly accepted. I was super stoked to go through the box, finding mini casserole dishes, paring knives, muffin tins and a pregnancy test.

?!

Well, how about that.

It was new—still in the box, thank God, but it's hardly what I'd consider standard kitchen equipment, unless …

She has ONE hot kitchen.

Spicing it up, fo sho.

Don't get me wrong—I'm grateful for the castoffs. Especially now that I'm the proud owner of a matching twin-set of fondue cookbooks. A fonduo, if you will. Yes! Grab a skewer.

But then my other sister, Maryannie, pointed out that maybe, because it wasn't 1972, we didn't really need dueling fondue cookbooks. Quite honestly, though, I was tickled to have a back-up copy, considering all of the risks associated with fondue parties, what with the open fire and the hot oil and melted chocolate.

But illustrations like that are starting to help me realize that maybe my thinking is just a hair different than most folks'. For instance, you all remember the pink, fuzzy coat, yes?

While I fully admit it's a generally ridiculous article of clothing, I've taken to walking the dogs in it because:

A. It's warm.

B. It's been about -5 degrees up here with feets and feets of snow falling daily.

C. What exactly IS the right occasion for such an item?

So, I was tooling along the lane, walking by a local antique store, when the owner of said store stepped out into the arctic cold to flag me down and say, "I don't mean this unkindly, but you look like a Dr. Seuss character in that coat. I think it's fabulous!"

Why, thank you Very Gay Sir. I know who's getting the first invite to my next fondue party.

In the Comments section, tell me if you like fondue cookery.