Bang-bang-bang, crash, thump, wham. “It’s okay! The fire is out!”
Not what you want to hear from your husband when he’s supposed to be cooking dinner, although somewhat more comforting than “Call 9-1-1!” The butcher paper from the steak he was cooking got too close to the stove and in a highly animated variation of rock-paper-scissors, paper definitely came out the loser. In the end, I believe Andrew bludgeoned the flames into submission with an oven mitt. The sirloin came out medium peppered with flakes of ash. Move over Heston Blumenthal.
My mother says things come in threes. The scorched cafetiera and the fillet fire make two. I’m wondering what third item we’ll have to sacrifice before the kitchen gods are placated. Oh, please, let them count the kettle. Technically, it merely ceased to function. I suspect flames are required to assuage this culinary deity. If something must go, I offer up our small basement freezer (and the sales rep who assured me frost-free was an over-rated feature). It’ll take an inferno to get the built up ice off the coils, and I’ll need all the room I can get when I start my Christmas baking next week.
Not one to tempt fate, I’m making my wish list and checking it twice. Think I’ll cross off “creme brulee torch” and put in its place “new fire extinguisher”.
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