When I was first married, you would be pleasantly surprised (or horrifically concerned) to open my silverware drawer and see it’s contents.  Inside you would find forks and spoons of the same pattern lined up flawlessly; perfectly stacked as if they were a lineup of Soldiers outside Buckingham Palace.  Knives sat effortlessly in their designated space, not a fingerprint or a water spot to be found.  You would be met with a bright white light bursting forth from inside the cabinetry with angels singing a rousing rendition of the “Hallelujah Chorus”  at full volume.   I would offer you a thousand dollars and yet you would be unable to find a crumb in there.  It was, to me, a work of art, and actually gave me a feeling of slightly unhealthy joy to see that pristine drawer.  

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