I'm not even mad.

There's a careful balance in our house that I never EVER want to upset.

Specifically, I do the cooking and Bubba does the dishes.

It is very rad because that means I get to master plan meals like a mini-psycho Iron Chef (without the cow eyeballs like they do on TV) and make them without having to take any time or mess saving measures to avoid having to do ONE MORE DISH OH MY GAWD I CAN'T MANAGE IT.

This is important because it means that I won't leave out a crucial ingredient like, say, the pork in Ultracrunchy Baked Pork Chops, just because it's going to mean I have to clean another bowl or pan or cutting board or whatever.

I'm very lazy and we know this.

I mean, I'm very enthusiastic at the outset of a recipe. I put together my careful little shopping list and go hunt down all the ingredients from where ever they may hide (even if that means I have to buy poppy seeds in bulk at the fruit stand three hours from my house on a trip to my mom's so that I can have them on hand for bread WHATEVER) and then I regroup in my kitchen, put on my apron, spread them all out before me and then dive in like a witch at her cauldron all sure of myself that I'm about to create something fabulous and incredible that will knock the socks right off of my beloved YAY!

But once that fabulousness is all plated and then eaten with glee, the thought of doing dishes is enough for me to start checking my steak knife for sharpness.

When Bubba gets up from the table and clears our dishes and walks to the sink with the determination and focus of a Marine - To Do The Dishes - it is really quite swoon-worthy. I love it a lot.

AND SO - it is important that we don't upset the man as he's making his way through these dishes. We want him content, satiated and well-stocked with supplies with which he can achieve the utmost cleanliness of dishes.

So when I hear groaning and scrubbing and scritching and swearing and then also see the handle of my favorite and most well loved skillet flicking around with annoyed rage, I have to investigate.

Even worse is when I slap the skillet down on the stove-top as I'm preparing my witch's brew of fabulous dinnerosity and hear Bubba ask me in his most Don't Hate Me When I Suggest This But Please voice to maybe use more oil in the pan because it's impossible to get the burnt-on ugliness off after I sear the ever loving crap out of the chicken on there.

Oh.

But wait? That, my love, is a non-stick pan. Everything should just wash right off. No scrubbing required.

Not so.

It seemed, after four years of almost daily use, that my beloved 10" Calphalon NON-STICK skillet had somehow become SUPER-STICK. As in, every fucking thing was sticking to it and was not coming off. As in, Bubba was having to use a gallon of soap and scorching hot water and all manner of elbow, knee and toe grease to get it even marginally clean. And it was making him mad.

NO!

What if he won't do dishes anymore? What if I have to start doing them? WHAT IF I DIE DOING DISHES?

Unthinkable.

Idea: Send that shit back and tell them it's broken.

Assumption: They won't give a rat's behind and will keep my skillet and send me a Xerox of their asses.

Reality: One week after shipping it to them with a note detailing my inappropriate devotion and love for this pan, a brand spanking new one shows up on my doorstep, no questions asked. And frankly, no details supplied. Just a new pan.

Which is fine by me.

NEW PAN!

So, Bubba is coming home soon from his worldly travels and I have a lot of cooking in store. Cooking that will involve my brandie new supah slippery very easy to clean 10" Calphalon Contemporary Non Stick skillet and no cow eyeballs whatsoever.

But maybe some pork.

Calphalon people - I like you guys and won't talk shit about you here like I do other people that piss me off. Good job!