Toddlergeist

I decided to bake some banana bread, since I had let some bananas sit a little too long on the counter.  As everyone knows, when your bananas turn brown, God is telling you to make banana bread.  Or you should just not buy so many bananas, even if both your kids suddenly like them.  Plus, I was feeling all domestic since realizing that I'm way behind my neighbors in that category.

I'm kind of a banana bread pro, considering I've spent years repurposing brown bananas that Sebastian didn't eat, so I grabbed the mixer and made it happen.  I was already ahead of the game: the bananas weren't frozen and I had every single ingredient in the recipe, which was a first.  I substituted the oil with applesauce, because I'm all about a moist banana bread without the fat <*wink*> and acted like I meant to throw the cinnamon and nutmeg in the banana mix instead of the flour because who doesn't like a bolder cinnamony-nutmeggy-banana flavor?

It was a little hectic with the kids running around, so I preheated the oven after I'd already mixed the bread and before I greased the loaf pans.  Then I mixed in the walnuts after the batter was already in the pans.  WHATever, I thought as I set the time and left the room, It's going to be fine.

The timer went off and I went to get the bread out of the oven.  Only one problem: there were no oven mitts or potholders, anywhere.  Maybe God wanted me to bake some banana bread, but something in my house did not want me to actually retrieve that banana bread from the oven.

Cultures throughout history have recorded this problem.  A well-meaning person is trying to do something, but some tiny purveyor of mischief must make its presence known by throwing obstacles in the way.  Certainly I did not have elves cobbling shoes or gnomes weeding the garden in the  night.  A leprechaun would too busy collecting and guarding his gold (or nursing his St. Patrick's Day hangover) to mess with my banana bread, so my Irish heritage wasn't getting in my way here.  The obvious solution: a poltergeist.  It had taken my usual ove mitts to cause some havoc - maybe it wanted to see if I would use my shirt sleeve - but we just started grilling, so HA!  I have a THIRD oven mitt that is readily available!  I put the big black thing on my arm - it hits just amove the elbow, and tried to hide my smug smile lest the creature cause a small fire as I opened the oven.

I checked the bread.  It needed five more minutes.  I set the oven mitt on the counter and left the room, knowing full-well that I may have just frustrated a supernatural being intent on my destruction.  I thought of non-flammable alternatives in case the poltergeist attacked again while I was distracted in the living room.

Just as I sat down, I noted an Audrey-sized blur zooming out of the kitchen.  One arm was completely covered in a big black grilling oven mitt.  She screamed "My titchen!  My titchen!" and smiled delightedly as she ran down the hall toward her playroom, where she has an Audrey-sized kitchen that lacks oven mitts.

So......... it's NOT a poltergeist? I thought with relief and confusion, walking slowly down the hall and confiscating her stash before I burned the banana bread.

Cultures throughout history have recorded the problem of little people, of tiny purveyors of mischief who must make their presence known by throwing obstacles in the way of well-meaning people.  They are called "elves" or "gnomes" or "fairies" or "leprechauns."  Some cultures call these unseen supernatural creatures "poltergeists."  My culture calls them "toddlers," and I seem to have an infestation.