Conflagration

I tried to fry some chicken for Woog one afternoon. Put the pan on. Poured a dollop of oil. Turned on the heat.

Just as I was about to drop in my lovely marinated breadcrumb-bathed fowl pieces, a huge sheet of flame burst into my frying pan. In my panic, I threw some water in and was rewarded with a nice toasty bonfire spewing haywire towards heaven.

I glanced around wildly for help. Any help. And I saw my son peeking in from the living room, both his eyes and mouth rounded in “O's”. I didn't even notice the few dozen house spiders that fell from the ceiling above the stove, all nicely and evenly toasted.

Who's the adult here, ha? Who is the adult? I mentally slapped myself, braved the heat, and turned off the gas. Who's the adult here, ha?

But the pan was still on fire. And the cooking oil bubbled on it, black as the devil's very ass.

“Mommy, you're burning my chicken!” Woog exclaimed from a significantly safe distance away.

Help! Screeched my tortured inner novice cook. Taking a deep breath of clean air away from the fumes, I dove in and took hold of the pan's handle. I had intended to clear a path to the door, and dump this poor blackened flambe'ed cooking piece into the courtyard outside.

But horrors! An obstinate drop of hot oil burst from the flames and landed on my arm. With a yelp, I let got of the pan and watched it sommersault in slow motion, landing face down on the newly waxed floor.

And viola. The fire went out.

Cries of “Oh, thank you!” and “Mom, my chicken!” rang out.

Post-disaster. Yaya came in with the clean laundry and ended up frying Woog's chicken (to perfection, I might add. And she's 16 years old). She scrubbed the soot-blackened ceiling as well. And got rid of the poor roasted spider carcasses.

Meanwhile, the kitchen floor proudly displayed its version of the black hole, the exact dimensions of the coal-colored frying pan lying morosely in the courtyard. Small spots of singed chair upholstery from the oil, which I tried valiantly to scrub off. Alas.

The house smelled of burnt air for hours, even after Atch arrived from work. He eyed the disaster for quite a time. He was not amused.

Adult, my ass.

August 2006