Courage Under Fire?

Saturday started out as normal - breakfast at Flapjacks with mom so that she would have a chance to see Adam. On the way home, we stopped at Wal-Mart, picked up some pictures and a few groceries, and headed home.

Once home, I went into the kitchen and got busy. I had things to do!

I started peeling potatoes, and started knicking my fingers with the peeler. By the time I was done, I had a kitchen towel wrapped around my bleeding thumb and a large bowl of nicely peeled and sliced potatoes. I lovingly layered them in the pan, added cream, parmesan cheese, butter, thyme, chives, and garlic. Potatoes Gratin a la Tyler Florence at the Food Network. I'm not an expert chef, but I know how to use a recipe site.

An hour into cooking and I peeled back the foil anticipating wonderful things. After all, I had used FRESH thyme. Spending three bucks on fresh weeds to liven up a dish ought to produce wonderous results. Right? They had hardly cooked...hmm...oven temp? Good. Pan overfilled? Nope. Any spillage? No, not from the pan...but...there was a small puddle of cheese in the bottom of the oven. It was like someone placed the pan in the oven, then threw a handful of cheese in the bottom of there for fun. I scraped it up with a metal spoon, moved the pan over, and added a pan of fish for my husband's dinner.

Meanwhile, I was cooking onions, rice, and spinach to add to the fish. I was in kitchen diva mode. It was smelling yummy...but the burning smell from the oven increased. I checked and it seems that disturbing the puddle of cheese was a critical mistake. It was smoking, but seemed unthreatening. So Ismael would have smoked fish for dinner. I was okay with that.

Thirty minutes later...I removed the fish, added it to the concoction on the stove, and checked the potatoes.

STILL not done. Hmm... Tyler?

So I made the fatal decision to turn the oven up 25 degrees. Apparently the flashpoint temp for parmesan cheese is 400 degrees.

The next time I checked the potatoes the bottom of my oven looked like a flambe was cooking. Small circle of tall orange flames.

I shut the oven.

As if that would help.

I looked for the baking soda that I could have sworn was next to the stove. Gone.

I ran to the pantry and looked for it on the baking shelf. Nope. I did find the open bag of brown rice which at this point rained down on my head.

I ran back to the oven. Yep. Still fire. I grabbed a kitchen towel, removed the pan of uncooperative potatoes, wet the kitchen towel, and smacked at the fire. After all, it wasn't a grease fire. That should have worked. Except that cheese IS grease in its solid, yummy form. The fire splattered everywhere. That was a bad, bad plan.

I remembered that the apartment complex has a fire extinguisher in the hallway. I grabbed that, pulled the pin, aimed the hose, and BARELY touched the trigger. Poof! No fire! Success! Crisis averted. No 911 call!

My jubilation was short lived.

I had just that moment of elation. Accomplishment. While I stood there, stupidly savoring my victory over disaster, smoke and powder billowed out of the oven into my face and all over me. The kitchen air filled with the evidence of my success. The smoke detector began screaming. Ahh...heaven.

Disaster control. I scooped Adam out of his bed where he wasn't napping anyway and tossed him in bed with Ismael who was napping until my rude entrance. In what I hoped was a calm voice, I explained to my startled husband, "I spilled some cooking in the oven, it caught on fire, I put it out with the fire extinguisher." With that, I grabbed the fan and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind me. Poor Ismael.

I was back two seconds later. He'd rolled over and was just laying there with Adam. "Come HELP ME." I mean come on. The words FIRE and EXTINGUISHER should alert him there is a potentially deadly problem afoot. Plus the kitchen is so smoky that I can't get in there to open the window. I seem to think that HE should be doing this. Lack of oxygen. I was apparently not thinking clearly.

Neither was he. He just stood there, barefoot in a pile of rice in front of the open pantry, looking at the smoke and powder in the kitchen air. The two meals, uncovered, on the stove. Oven door hanging open. Previously clean laundry on top of the dryer. And the piece de la resistance ... the enormous mess I make when I cook all over the counters. Did I mention that I had been cooking with spinach? That seems to rain in my kitchen like confetti when I use it. I make a god awful mess.

"NEVER MIND! Go back to bed!" And he did. Ugh!

I ended up leaving the mess, throwing all that food away, leaving the windows hanging open with every fan we had running, and putting Adam in the car to head to the cookout. We bought KFC cole slaw on the way. My contribution. I mentally dared anyone to make a smart comment about it.

This morning I got up with all of the cleaning on my mind. All the laundry in there would have to be rewashed. All the baby bottles and their million assorted pieces. Should I wash or toss the onions? So much to think about. And Ismael was standing back in his spot in front of the pantry, looking into the kitchen, and then it happened. The straw broke the camel's back.

He asked, "Did you throw rice on the floor??"

Is he serious?

I went back to bed.

And as I was laying there thinking about all the correct things that Prince Charming could have said or done, I heard a distant "ting." Silverware being taken out of the dishwasher and put away, making room for a new load of fireproofed silverware, dishes, and baby accessories. "Ting, ting." Ismael, who had been working all night, was helping me in his own way while I wallowed in bed, and self pity. I'm not sure which was warmer or more satisfying.

Guilt drove me from my warm haven to my husband's backside which I hugged as he stooped down to get more dishes. With his help, we got one load of dishes going and a load of laundry. My task seemed less monumental and he was freed from kitchen drudgery to pursue his all consuming passion - in 24 hour news on the DVR and the Internet at the same time.

As for me, I'm buying a bucket of baking soda.