dancing in the kitchen

I like to dance.  I dance a lot.  Sparky and I have been ballroom dancing for years.  We mostly do waltz and foxtrot and jive and cha cha.  Sparky is an excellent dancer, he especially is an excellent dancer sometimes.

But I dance a lot alone.  Mostly in the kitchen.   The music goes on while I perform mundane yet vital tasks which sustain my family.  Such as chopping vegetables or taking all the meat off a stewed chicken carcass.  This may come as a surprise to you, but de-meating a chicken carcass is actually not as fun as it might sound.

So, to relieve myself of the inevitable meniality (I think I just made that up, at least I am not aware that it is a word.    The suffix "ity" actually changes an adjective into a state of being, becoming an abstract noun.  So, for example, something that is acerb becomes an acerbity.  Case in point, something that is menial [commonplace, lowly, dull, base] becomes a meniality.  The state of being menial.) of meal making tasks, I put on music and I dance while I tear meat off bones.

My children think, weird, mama.  But that is okay.  I think, well, whatever gets me through the day in a happy mood, except for immoral things or addictive things or expensive things or hallucinatory drugs should be okay.   Ooo.  Dancing is addictive.