[All the tomatoes refused to be sliced in quote-unqoute, "thin, delicate slices the width of a quarter of an inch, and then diced to size". He'd got the quarter part right, if by quarter the recipe card meant "horse and quartered". Tomato gut juice is everywhere, most prominently on his no longer pristine white shirt and vest. How the heck is he to slice it when it kept jumping about everywhere?!
What is with all this drain business? Can't he just squeeze and toss into the pot, as any time sensitive person would do? Except woops, more veggie guts on his shirt, making it look like a painter's palette now.]