Miracles. There’s no other way to explain the church kitchen. Miracles, just like Bible times. You could set up a flannelgraph in front of the third grade Sunday School class and read the stories to the class straight out of the King James.
And lo, a door stood before me. Behold, I opened the door, and in the fridge there appeared forty-seven bottles of mustard where there had been only one. I picked up a bottle, and I saw the inscription, “BEST IF USED BEFORE OCT 08 92.” And I was sore afraid. A voice with the sound of many waters said unto me, “Do not be afraid. Take, open the bottle.” And I opened the bottle, and I beheld that the mustard was good.
Salad dressings multiply like loaves and fishes. Forks disappear like a beggar’s leprous spots, while knives abound like a plague of frogs. And if you should try to stow away a snack, it will vanish just like Enoch. “The Goldfish™went in the cupboard, and then they were no more.” I’ve even seen some jam in a jar transform into a furry creature that could kill you if you opened it. Unlike Moses’ staff, it doesn’t turn back into jam when you pick it up, although it may rise up and walk.
I once left a coffee mug on the kitchen counter before Sunday School. During the class it proceeded to imitate Philip after baptizing the Ethiopian eunuch. The mug reappeared at the fellowship table looking confused about its new surroundings. Unfortunately, the miracle didn’t extend to keeping my coffee hot.
If there’s a kitchen committee, the miracles tend to look like the ones performed by angry prophets, and may contain fire, flooding, and even the occasional famine. But at least they keep the miracles of neglect from happening. The Welches™ doesn’t turn into wine. The forks get replenished. And while we still have forty-seven bottles of mustard, they’re sorted by date.
I love it already