When my mom was here last week, she gave me a stern warning:
“Adam,” she said, sternly, “do not buy an ice cream maker.” (I had mentioned the idea of buying an ice cream maker). “You are moving in two months. You do not need another thing to move. Do not buy an ice cream maker.”
So when I was in the mall today, and when I was in Crate and Barrel, I did not take a picture of the ice cream makers on the shelf:
I did not note their reasonable price ($49); I did not ask the saleswoman about their utility (“They’re great!” she said); and I did not ask her to ring one up for me right away.
And, of course, when I got home, I did not put it on the table and take a picture of the box.
Nor did I take it out of the box and study its contents:
Did I take out the bowl part and put it in the freezer for 24 hours of freezing, like the book says?
Surely not. I am a good, reliable, dependable, upstanding son who would never betray his mother by buying an ice cream maker. I resent any other implications.