So, here I was, happily cooking dinner, when the ceiling fan and overhead light and the clothes dryer all stopped. Taking a moment to mentally take inventory, I reassured myself that yes the bill was most definitely paid, and therefore whatever the heck was going on was not my fault. I then felt very smug indeed as I realized I was cooking on a gas range. Ha, take THAT, blown transformer.
Within a few seconds, I started to do the mental calculus of when, exactly, Mom and I could justify going on a wild ice cream binge in the name of thrift.
I finished cooking; we ate dinner in the bizarre quiet. (Well, relative quiet. I don't think traffic noises count.) The irony did not escape us that if the power wasn't back by ten, we'd miss that NatGeo show about the Amish.
Time passed--oh, not much time, not really. Enough to make me wonder how on Earth I might deal with the cache of carefully vacuum-bagged pork chops I have stashed in the freezer. Dear Readers, I probably would have been forced to track each of you down to personally deliver a generous portion of pepper pork as thanks for your loyalty.
Moments after I laughed at myself for reflexively hitting a light switch, the house came back to life. My imminent ice-cream-and-perfectly-good-excuse sundae evaporated before my eyes. But, you know, there was light and it was good.