I should’ve known better than to list all the crazy in my life this week and just assume that it was all she wrote.
Just a mere hour or so after hitting publish on my last post,
there was a small fire in my kitchen.
Caused by me.
Technically, it was caused by chicken fat, a paper towel and an open flame.
But I was the one who threw the party and invited all the above items to come.
I decided to boil a whole chicken for soup.
I didn’t realize all the fat that was oozing out of the chicken when I let it rest on the cutting board.
In fact, it wasn’t until I saw Nigel licking the kitchen floor that I saw the steady stream of fat dripping down from the counter onto the cabinets and drawers below.
I had to get on all fours to wipe up the greasy mess with paper towels that I would set up on the counter as they became soaked.
Did I mention I was boiling noodles in a big pot on the stove?
And that we have a gas stove so there is an open flame?
I saw the flash of light but really didn’t think much of it since it does that if even the tiniest bit of water splashes out of the pot.
But this flash didn’t seem to be going away.
The fat soaked paper towel was engulfed in flames.
I picked it up and shook it--which angered it.
I ran to the sink and threw it in a bowl of what I thought was water but turned out to be the fat from the broth that I skimmed off the soup.
It angered the fire even more.
I turned on the water and put out the fire.
The entire kitchen smelled like burnt marshmallows and I noticed I had chicken fat all over the toe of my favorite slippers.
Good thing I didn’t try to stomp out the flaming paper towel or I’d be typing a very different story right now.
I called Monte to let him know not to worry that the fire had been put out.
I may or may not have said something like,
“Who knew animal fat was so flammable?”
And everyone on that ship hunting down Moby Dick.