I dust the bread board with another coating of flour, flip the ball of dough and keep rolling. Our rolling pin lost its pin and handles years ago, so we just manually roll with the cylinder of wood. Push. Roll. Flip. Press. Earwig.
Why is there an earwig in the middle of my breadboard?
Where did it come from? I look around. Could it have climbed the table and just walked across the board? No. I would have seen it. Could it have fallen from the ceiling? Possibly. Doubtful. My suspicions turn to my rolling pin.
I pick it up and look in the end. Something is blocking the tube. I hold it up to the light and look inside. It is writhing.
I grab a chopstick from the drawer. I calmly walk outside to the deck. I pound the end of the pin on the railing. Out fall a dozen earwigs.
I pound it again. Six more fall out.
Me: Oh, god.
I pound and pound and pound. I stop counting earwigs after several dozen have fallen out. I pound for a full minute before they stop.
I did not hate earwigs until now. Not as gross an experience as the cabbage incident, but pretty gross, nonetheless.