The pale, cold light of a distant moon cast its shadows over the dark kitchen. I espied the flimsy, floppy pan turner before me. It mocked me with cursed memories of my pathetic attempts at flipping food.
"Avaunt!" said I, making a sign of disgust at the instrument. I ripped the impotent spatula from the shelf and thrice I stamped on the abhorr'd tool before heaping it high on the trash.
I replaced the useless implements with a sturdy nylon turners. I am astounded by how flawless it feels in my hand. The nylon won't scratch the pan, and the stainless steel handle is an added touch of DeLoreanesque luxury that must be handled to appreciate.
I daren't tell you about it more, for if I did the dreamlike aura I find myself in would soon become a restless nightmare.
