December 16th, 2025

What does “Fit of pique” mean?
"Fit of pique" means experiencing a sudden burst of anger or irritation.
  

​It's an old-fashioned expression, one you may not ever have heard before, "fit of pique".  I have always liked the phrase though rarely have had an opportunity to use it.  Well until now.

Sometimes a "fit of pique" involves gritted teeth and fiery eyes, or stomping about and flailing arms wildly, occasionally shouting is involved.  Sometimes worse.   Basically it's an adult tantrum, which is never pretty.   And to tell this story, I must tattle on myself.

Normally I am a very easy-going person.  I laugh things off most of the time, I roll with inconvenience and unexpected complications like a champ, I shrug and pivot and move on when things don't go my way.  But apparently, even I, Pollyanna/Suzy Sunshine, have a line that should not be crossed. And recently, life crossed it.

I'll set the scene.   Late afternoon after a long day of doing far too much on my stupid foot - still in the dang orthopedic boot by the way - which means my foot was hurting.  It's getting much cooler out which means my arthritic hands were aching.  I had been busy doing housey stuff all day long and honestly housework is one of those things that nobody notices unless you don't do it.  So for all that I had knocked myself out the entire day, (even though I'm supposed to still be a couch poe tay toe) it appeared that I had done nothing (if you follow that logic).  It was gloomy and chilly and wet outside, never my favourite. The kitty boys were underfoot, 'helping" with every chore. The dinner I had planned was one of those things that while not technically difficult, had a lot of moving parts. Every single part of the planned meal had to be carefully tended with multiple steps and perfectly timed.  But I was still in a good mood.

Part of the planned dinner was scalloped potatoes, which is a nice cozy bad weather day side dish.  I buttered my trusty old casserole dish which I've had for about fifty years-ish, I had the bechamel sauce bubbling away, giving it the occasional stir as I used a mandolin to slice the potatoes into nice thin even slices.  You can probably guess where this is going.

Yup, despite using the proper tools, even though I was a cautious as anybody could possibly be, somehow, I mysteriously managed to slice a chunk off the top of my right index finger.  Geez!  Those injuries bleed like crazy.  I wrapped it in paper towels, squeezed the finger below the cut, held it upright in the air, ran it under cold water, but no matter what I did, it was like faucet had been turned on. It just wouldn't stop.  Geez!  But I kind of shook my head at myself, "typical Sam", I said and laughed it off while addressing it.

After going through about a roll of paper towels, I just couldn't postpone the bechamel sauce any longer. I wrapped it as snuggly as I could in, then put on a tight latex glove.  I finished putting together the scalloped potato dish and shoved it in the oven. THEN I addressed the finger more attentively.  The dish bakes for 1 hour and 40 minutes which gave me plenty of time to take care of things.

Eventually, it slowed down enough to slap a few Band-Aids on (multiple applications coz I kept bleeding through), put on a different clean latex glove and finished making dinner.  Main dish was done, veggies were done, I slide the casserole carefully out of the oven and set it on the trivet. And then I starred at it.  What the actual heck.  It looked...........wrong. I cannot explain it any better than that. I know what scalloped potatoes are supposed to look like and this was not it.  I gave it a few minutes to settle down and looked at it again.  Not any better.  Perhaps it tastes better than it looks?  Nope.

I have NO idea what I did wrong but it was about as wrong as wrong can be.  The only way it could be more wrong would be if it were made out of kangaroos instead of potatoes. I have NO idea what I did wrong but I couldn't serve that.  So I served the rest of the meal and bless his heart, Tim said nothing about the absent potato dish.  And still, I kept my cool.

When the time came to clean up, I hobbled back into the kitchen, rinsed things, filled the dishwasher and cleaned the counter tops, the stove top and then looked at the wreck of a casserole with disgust.  'You" I said accusingly, "Are going straight into the garbage".  I scraped the potato mess masquerading as scalloped potatoes into the trash, where it collapsed with a heavy wet plop. |And then I looked at the casserole dish itself.

Despite my precautions in heavily buttering the inside of the dish, there was so much potato and ruined sauce still clinging thickly to the sides and bottom.  I filled it with soap and water and began to scrub.  I scrubbed, I scraped, I pried at the crusty remains with a fork and a butter knife and still made very little progress.  My cut throbbed and I could see through the latex glove that I needed to change the bandaid Once Again, my foot hurt, I was tired and annoyed at myself over the failure of the dish which took so much time and effort to put together and still I starred at the dish in the sink.  I picked at the bits that refused to let go the casserole dish with my fingers nail and broke the nail.

Somehow that broken nail was the final blow. Without another thought I found myself pouring the remaining hot soapy water out, crossing the kitchen with that trusty old casserole dish in my hands and heaving the entire thing into the garbage.  I then lifted the heavy bag out of the can, hobbled outside to the big garbage bins and tossed within.  I closed the lid with a very satisfying slam.  I came inside, replaced the bag in the trashcan and finished rinsing the sink before, once again, taking care of my finger.

I would like to point out that I did not scream, I did not shout, I did not raise my voice, in fact I said nothing at all.  I had just reached the end of my tether and in that moment, it was the right choice.  It was my, oh so very rare, 'fit of pique'.

The next day I regretted it.  I used that casserole dish for so many things!  And if I had been more patient, perhaps I could have let it soak overnight, worked on it longer, maybe it could have been salvaged.  But alas and alack, too little, too late.

Some of you may feel that I was justified.  Other might be horrified by my tantrum. But in either case, it happened.  It's a rare event and a perfectly good casserole dish was sacrificed to the cause.  

I think that scalloped potatoes may never happen again in this house.