I was making apple butter when I decided to kill my husband.
My sister-in-law has apple trees, and she drops several bushels on our doorstep every fall. One year early in our marriage, I let some of the apples rot. My husband, let’s call him Ed, had a fit. So, my yearly Fall Ritual became making vats of applesauce, then turning the applesauce into apple butter and canning it. At Christmas, I give it to everyone I can think of. I am known far and wide for my damn apple butter. The rest of the year I can’t so much as look at an apple.
Ed was upstairs napping and I was in the kitchen, peeling and chopping apples. I turned on the little television and found one of those true crime shows that I adore. The episode was about a woman who had been arguing with her husband and bludgeoned him with one of his golf clubs. She then broke the window in the back door, knocked over some stuff in the living room and called the police. When they arrived, she was sitting on the floor cradling her husband’s body, thus explaining the blood on herself. Her story was that she had heard a loud noise downstairs. When she went to investigate, she surprised an intruder, who ran out the back door.