A Bird in the Hand

For months after I went to live with Spouse he was obliged to do the cooking- all morning, noon and evening's worth of it. I was reluctant to lay my hands on a foreign stove, toaster or utensil for fear of causing a culinary mishap.
But I relented eventually and one evening said, "I can help you cook," as a wifely gesture of compromise.
My first task, as delegated by Spouse, was to wash the chicken pieces under running water. I planted the meat in the sink. Accustomed to the inert, narrow drains of Irish sinks, I forgot about the gaping mouth of the garbage disposal. Before I knew it, the pieces of poultry began to slide: they slithered one by one, in awful slow motion that was not slow enough, in the direction of the chute and that nasty, slick cavern of writhing bacteria. I blinked; the drain gave a gulp and swallowed half the precious meat.
I called for assistance as the other slippery pieces, errant rascals, lunged closer to the drain. Spouse appeared, swooped down and rescued the remaining mouthfuls of our dinner from certain doom.
One of us was livid. The other thought it hysterically funny.
It was well worth every cent paid for the chicken we never tasted: it has given Spouse seven years of jocularity and hilarity.