daz on Nostr: Nostr worth thread: Alright, confession time: I live in a climate where “room ...
Nostr worth thread:
Alright, confession time: I live in a climate where “room temperature” means “tropical sauna.” And all I want in life is to be one of those people who casually leaves their butter out on the counter, living the dream of perfectly spreadable toast. 🧈🥲
But no. Here, if I try to let my butter “soften up,” I end up with what can only be described as a butter-flavored Slip ’N Slide, dripping across my countertop, like some greasy tribute to modern art.
I mean, I see those Pinterest kitchens with cute little butter dishes on display, and I think, why not me? Why shouldn’t I also live a soft-butter life? So, in a moment of reckless optimism, I tried it — just left my butter out like some carefree influencer.
Fast forward 20 minutes, and my kitchen looked like it’d been slimed by a melting butter sculpture. It wasn’t some dreamy “spreadable masterpiece” — it was a shimmering, oily puddle that looked eerily like the floor of my local pub after karaoke night.
The butter didn’t even try to hold its shape. It just… surrendered.
And let me tell you, cleaning up melted butter is a unique form of suffering. You go in with a paper towel, and the butter just spreads, smearing like it’s taking a final stand against kitchen hygiene. By the end, my countertop was so slippery, it was like trying to mop up an oil spill on an ice rink.
So now, I’m back to keeping my butter in the fridge, resigned to the frigid block life. Every morning, I chisel at it like I’m forging a sword, hoping not to crack my toast in half. It’s like trying to butter toast with a frozen stick of deodorant, and let’s just say it’s not the gentle breakfast experience I dream of.
To those of you who can leave your butter out year-round, in climates where it’s never in danger of becoming the Exxon Valdez of condiments, I salute you. 🫡 You have no idea how good you’ve got it. So next time you’re casually gliding that flawless curl of butter onto toast, just know that someone out here in the tropics is shaking their fist at a greasy countertop and a rock-hard butter block colder than an eskimo’s nipples during a bath.
Alright, confession time: I live in a climate where “room temperature” means “tropical sauna.” And all I want in life is to be one of those people who casually leaves their butter out on the counter, living the dream of perfectly spreadable toast. 🧈🥲
But no. Here, if I try to let my butter “soften up,” I end up with what can only be described as a butter-flavored Slip ’N Slide, dripping across my countertop, like some greasy tribute to modern art.
I mean, I see those Pinterest kitchens with cute little butter dishes on display, and I think, why not me? Why shouldn’t I also live a soft-butter life? So, in a moment of reckless optimism, I tried it — just left my butter out like some carefree influencer.
Fast forward 20 minutes, and my kitchen looked like it’d been slimed by a melting butter sculpture. It wasn’t some dreamy “spreadable masterpiece” — it was a shimmering, oily puddle that looked eerily like the floor of my local pub after karaoke night.
The butter didn’t even try to hold its shape. It just… surrendered.
And let me tell you, cleaning up melted butter is a unique form of suffering. You go in with a paper towel, and the butter just spreads, smearing like it’s taking a final stand against kitchen hygiene. By the end, my countertop was so slippery, it was like trying to mop up an oil spill on an ice rink.
So now, I’m back to keeping my butter in the fridge, resigned to the frigid block life. Every morning, I chisel at it like I’m forging a sword, hoping not to crack my toast in half. It’s like trying to butter toast with a frozen stick of deodorant, and let’s just say it’s not the gentle breakfast experience I dream of.
To those of you who can leave your butter out year-round, in climates where it’s never in danger of becoming the Exxon Valdez of condiments, I salute you. 🫡 You have no idea how good you’ve got it. So next time you’re casually gliding that flawless curl of butter onto toast, just know that someone out here in the tropics is shaking their fist at a greasy countertop and a rock-hard butter block colder than an eskimo’s nipples during a bath.