Part II: Fire!
(See yesterday’s post for Part I)
Little leapt on top of me at six a.m. “Mom! Let’s make the chili! Chili! Chili! Chili!”
“Urghh,” I responded. I hauled myself out of bed and poured a cup of coffee, completely aware that I was not awake at all. But what did that have to do with anything? Dinner party tonight. Chili to be made. Excited culinary intern ready and willing to help.
I positioned Little over the crockpot on a chair next to the stove with instructions to spoon beans into the pot while I began ineptly doing six things at once. Chop onions, unwrap sausage, broil chicken, peel garlic, get the ugly pies out of the way so they don’t end up uglier or on the floor.
I lit the burner, pulled a skillet out of the cupboard and threw it on the stove.
When I turned back from the onions a moment later, flames were shooting from the skillet. Nice, healthy flames, maybe eight inches high, licking skywards a foot or so from my baby’s perfect self.
Now, as y’all know, I’m married to a fireman. And though I hadn’t actually seen him yet on this particular morning, I knew he was on the premises somewhere. Thirteen years ago, when I set fire to my grandmother’s kitchen on the day of her funeral (another story), my instant reaction was to holler his name at the top of my lungs.
But this time, I just sort of decided to leave him out of it. I mean, of course I’d started a kitchen fire at six a.m. After the antics of ugly pie day, this was hardly a shocker. How many people really needed to be involved in my little start-of-day drama?
So without saying a word, I turned off the burner, grabbed the skillet, threw it in the sink, flipped burning pieces of rubber in the opposite direction of my baby using the knife I still had in my hand (yes that makes perfect sense) while blowing out the flames.
“Wow,” said Little. “Cool!”
A few minutes later, roused by the exotic stench of burning rubber emanating from his kitchen, Captain Daddy appeared.
“Can I help?” he asked calmly, which in my experience typically means, ‘can I show up after you’ve solved whatever problem you created and point out all of the mistakes you made to create said problem?’.
“We’re fine,” I said.
“Mommy started a fire,” said Little, still perched over the crockpot.
Chicken Noodle wandered in and took in the scene.
“Little and I are going to write a book,” I said, waving my knife in the general direction of the half-chopped onion, the raw sausage and the pile of smoking burned up stuff. “It’s called Cooking with Children.”
Little shot me a look. “This was all your fault, Mom.”
“True story,” I admitted.
Noodle, who (like me) hates to cook but (like me) is the resident writer and illustrator in the family, knew material when she saw it. She struck a pose and spoke dramatically. “Cooking with Children: The Graphic Novel.”
Look for that one to come out sometime next year. But don’t expect the publication to be celebrated with a dinner party. At least not hosted by me.
P.S. In case you are wondering, Captain Daddy insists we put these rubber mat thingys between our pots and pans in the cupboard to protect them. One stuck to the bottom when I pulled the pan out threw it on the stove. Voila! Instant kitchen fire. Try it! It’s fun.