I exhale. I remind myself that this is just kitchenware.

But . . . my feet remain glued to the ground.

Drastic measures are needed.

“IT’S JUST KITCHENWARE!” I yell into the floor, the sound echoing off the ceiling and the white octagon tiles.

And now I just go.

Grab the pot.

Put it back on the burner.

Stare at the pot.

A watched pot never boils.

Also, a watched pot never magically puts itself in the center of the floor.

That’s my new motto.

I stand there for about three thousand years, watching the water in the pot taking forever to boil.

But I am watching this damn pot.

I better keep myself company.

“Well, what are you going to watch tonight, Daffodil? . . . I don’t know, self, I was thinking about watching the Silk Road series or maybe that other flat-earther doc or maybe the new Ancient Aliens . . . Yes, self, that sounds like a plan! . . . Yes, self, indeed. Ancient Aliens it is!”

Have I had this conversation before? This is all seeming strangely familiar.

Finally, the watched-pot water boils, in defiance of the phrase, and the unhealthy ramen noodle dinner begins.

I could stay here in the kitchen that obviously has some sort of pot portal going on . . . or I could just eat this upstairs, while I contemplate the pyramids, the Hopi people, and the Aztecs. As if this is any real choice. Why would I care about a mysteriously guided pot when there are such bigger things to blow my mind. Like the fact that, I mean, maybe those pyramids are actually some sort of electromagnetic energy device. Mind blown.

I put the strange-minded pot into the “don’t think about” folder on my brain desktop. Then I click over to it, drag it into the trash, and empty the trash right there.

Done.

See?

Easy as pie.

I’m just about to happily, calmly, peacefully march up the stairs when I hear the crisp sound of an English accent cutting through the air.

“Hallo? Toodle-oo!”

To my infinite annoyance, Penelope is already in the hallway, heading into the kitchen.

I want to tell her to actually knock, or, say, maybe give me a little notice, but she is already barreling past any such qualms.

“Oh dear, when was the last time you had a proper meal, dear girl?”

“Um . . .”

“Quite right. Here, let’s see what we have here in these cupboards. . . .”

“Uh, you know I was just—”

“A knife, I need a knife . . .” she mutters to herself, looking around.

“It seems like, perhaps maybe you could—”

“Found it!” She turns to me now, chipper, which would be fine except for the fact that she now has a rather large butcher knife in her hand.

“Um, to be honest, I’m really not that—”

“Hungry?” she says, still chipper.

But there is something strange in her smile. Something sideways and falling off to the left. A bright smile, but uncertain.