I once set a stock pot on fire. A few minutes after that, I burned the crap out of my hand, requiring ice. Don’t believe me? I have pictures to prove it.
This was after we used flour to put out the oil fire from me reading a recipe wrong.
This after I transferred the food to the crockpot, then burned my fingers on the little metal strip of the heating element beneath the ceramic insert when I pushed the crockpot aside. It was not a good day.
Last night, the kitchen disasters were almost as bad. It all started when I ran out of olive oil. We were having pork sausage and hashbrowns for dinner, and the hashbrowns require a good bit of oil. I looked for vegetable oil before remembering that we took it to our camper for use and it wasn’t easily accessed. I wasn’t driving across town for it, nor was I going to the store in the middle of cooking dinner. Mike was covered in grass clippings and new oil was not to be procured.
Then I remembered some peanut oil we bought for frying a turkey. I retrieved the giant, 3 gallon jug from the top of the fridge where we keep it, spinning my wheels about how to pour out only a little. I know, I thought. I’ll get a cup and then use the cup to pour it into our oil decanter. Brill. Tipping the giant jug, which inexplicably comes wrapped in a box that we, for some unknown reason, hadn’t removed, I got some oil between the jug and the inside of the box. Whoops. I hurriedly tipped it back, trying not to spill any more. For some reason, though, I tried to tip it back while holding the cup to the lip of the pour spout, which then emptied the cup back into the jug, but not gracefully, so there was now more oil in the box.
Turning on the faucet, I rinsed my slicked hands for better grip and tried again. Same thing happened. Shit. Then, I looked closer and saw a steady stream of oil falling from the corner of the box onto the floor, spreading out on the counters, and splattering up on the front of our dishwasher. Double shit.
By this point, the paper towels were flying, the oil was slicking everything, my grip on the floor was fading as was my patience, and my daughter decided to come in and demand a drink.
To keep any more oil from spilling I quickly poured my cup full, hauled the box, streaming, from the counter and put it in the garage on our crap rug we use to wipe our feet, leaving an oil slick behind. I turned in time to see the cat coming to the open garage door. I could just see it, my own version of a tar and feathering. Only it would be an oil and furring. I managed to scare the cat off without getting his fur tangled up in the mess and turned to hurriedly get Daughter’s Drank Drank! As I turned, my feet slid, and the kitchen floor became a skating rink. Woo! Barely remaining upright, I banged my elbow on the counter trying to keep from landing on my butt on top of Daughter.
Luckily, then, Mike returned from retrieving our son from the neighbor’s house and was able to help me clean up without injury, further mess, or any other oil slicks. Unfortunately, the hash browns still didn’t make it. In my hurry to get the damn dinner done already, I poured too much oil into the pan and drowned them. Mike ate them, but he was the only one, prounouncing them edible and good, but could be better. I quickly transferred what was left in the cup to the oil decanter, whipped up a batch of mashed potatoes from the box and called it good.
At least when I burned my hand and that pot I’d still managed to salvage our dinner. After that, I bathed the kids and settled in to knit. At least there’s no way to fall while sitting down knitting. Or, I haven’t discovered it yet.