Kitchen Adventures, Part Four

Have I mentioned that I am not well-suited for the kitchen?

I'm not. I can do peanut butter and jelly sammiches(now with MORE jelly!) pretty awesome, and I can do that grilled cheese thingy. I can microwave soup. My signature dish is lasagna, but it's such a pain in the butt to make that I don't make it very often.

I decided to make scrambled eggs for dinner. I threw some eggs into a skillet, scrambled them a bit, then turned on the burner.

I then stood guard there, next to the skillet, because Zane likes to run up to the stove and 'see' what's there, which might mean that he will try to grab what is there. (I'm paranoid enough not to chance it.)

I then smelled smoke. My brain did what it always does in these situations: like a dog when it hears something weird, my brain cocked it's metaphorical head to the side. I looked down.

There were tendrils of smoke coming from underneath the skillet.

Was ist das????

I decided that something must have spilled on the burner at some point, and it was smoking.

That's happened before.

I reached up and turned on the exhaust fan, and waited for whatever was on the burner to burn away.

It didn't.

The smoke got a little thicker. I started waving my hand near the skillet, to circulate the smoke a little. I was nervous about setting off the alarm system, since I remembered very clearly what had happened the last time I did that.

I fanned the smoke a little faster in my nervousness.

Mistake. I will just go ahead right now and call my fanning of the smoke what it was--a dumbass move.

I heard the unmistakable sound of whatever was under the burner bursting into flame.

I took the skillet off the burner and put it on another burner. I said a few very bad words as I contemplated the small fire.

"What was that?" Larry called from the living room.

"I said, 'the stove is on fire'," a bit louder and censored for Zane.

Larry didn't even get up from the couch, which I suppose is a sad testament to his experience with my cooking. Meanwhile, I confronted the fire with grim determination.

First step in a crisis: Assess the situation.

Situation: There is a fire.

Second step in a crisis: Have a plan, one that did not include running around the kitchen screaming.

I knew exactly what to do in a fire: smother the flames. Great! I learned something from watching movies!

With what? I didn't have anything immediately handy. I didn't want to take my eyes off the fire, although it appeared to be contained within the drip pan underneath the burner.

"Not a towel, stupid", was my next thought. Towel+flame=bad. For a second longer, I was indecisive.

My indecisiveness annoyed me. I loathe indecisiveness with the white heat of the sun. This got me moving. I grabbed a cup, filled it with some water, and doused the flames. I leaped back as I did so, just in case there was a small explosion(it's an electric stove).

There was only the sound that a fire makes as it dies.

Crisis averted.

That was when I remembered the fire extinguisher that we keep on the counter next to the phone.

The kitchen was hazy with smoke. I opened the back door, then turned around.

Third step in a crisis: Evaluate the plan. I gave it a C, only because it took me so long to react.

Smoke seemed to be the only visible damage. Zane hollered from the living room that 'it smelled good'. I yelled back something, probably 'thank you'. My brain had gone on autopilot, and memory suffered.

The eggs were salvageable, so I finished cooking them on another burner. Parts of them were a little browned, due to the fact that there was an actual fire involved in their cooking.

"Dinner is ready," I hollered. Larry came into the kitchen, got a plate, and looked at the eggs. He saw that there were some browned eggs.

"What did you put in the eggs?" he wanted to know. I just looked at him, and to my credit, I did not say a word. Not. One. Word. I was really proud of myself.

I do like to cook, even though my husband won't eat what I make unless it's something he already likes like eggs, hamburgers, or lasagna. Eventually, I will become completely discouraged, sell all the pots and pans at a garage sale, and my family will live on microwave dinners.

For now, however, I will continue to forge on with my culinary efforts.