The Ballad of Bertha's Bread Battle

Bertha Buttercup considered the loaf of artisanal sourdough with the intense focus of a bomb disposal expert defusing a particularly stubborn explosive. Her mission: a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Her history: a long, storied career in accidental self-sabotage.

The first casualty was the bread itself. As she attempted to pry two slices apart, the loaf, sensing weakness, decided to disintegrate into a shower of crumbs and one defiant, misshapen slab. Bertha sighed, retrieving the slab. "One-half sandwich it is, then," she muttered, ever the optimist.

Next, the peanut butter. A fresh jar. Bertha, armed with a knife, plunged it in. The jar, a veteran of many a Bertha encounter, clung to its contents with a tenacity usually reserved for barnacles. With a Herculean heave, Bertha finally dislodged a sizeable dollop. The momentum, however, propelled the knife (and the peanut butter) directly into her eyebrow. "Excellent," she mumbled, scraping the creamy protein off her face, "Pre-lunch exfoliation."

The jelly, a strawberry preserve, watched from its perch. Bertha approached with caution, having learned that sugary condiments often held a grudge. She unscrewed the lid with the delicacy of a surgeon, but as she tilted the jar to get a spoonful, a rogue bubble of air decided to make a dramatic exit. The "plop" it made upon landing was followed by a scarlet splatter that decorated the ceiling, her cat (Mittens, who had unwisely chosen that moment to nap on the counter), and a perfectly innocent houseplant.

Bertha surveyed the battlefield: a crumb-strewn counter, a peanut-butter-streaked face, a strawberry-jammed ceiling, and a very indignant, purple-splashed Mittens. The singular, defiant slab of bread lay forgotten amidst the chaos.

She picked up her phone. "Yes, I'd like to order a pizza. And perhaps a mop."