M likes toast. He butters it on a plate, picks it up off the plate and stands in the middle of the kitchen to eat it. When I say “middle of the kitchen” I mean the actual middle. Not hunched over the sink, but right out there in the middle of the kitchen, far away from a pesky plate or paper towel, not so much as a cupped hand to catch the shrapnel of crumbs exploding all over the floor, the counters, the front of his shirt. Sometimes he takes his show on the road, and walks around the condo or reclines in his “man- chair,” where the crumbs collect on his chest and belly. I’ve asked him to be careful, but soon lost patience watching him negotiate getting out of the chair, trying not to let the crumbs fall and embed into the fibers of the carpet. I made both our lives easier by having a dust buster charged and standing by.
Now I just dust bust M.
A few passes across his front, and crises averted.