I am prone to disaster, cooking or other. Some of you may have read my “Peril of the Pears” blog, or my “I am Goofy, Goofy I am” blog, and understand what I am talking about. There was this particular time . . .
“Hey mom!” I walked into the house after high school and headed straight for the kitchen. The piano plunking away in the background as my mom taught her student. I was always hungry after school. My stomach roaring like a lion I was surprised the student couldn’t hear. I grabbed the toaster and shoved some bread in. I didn’t think to move it out from under the cabinets. But then, at the end of a school day, when is thinking for a tired teenager a forte?
“Hi dad.” I pecked a kiss on his cheek as I passed him reading the paper at the table. “Mmm, you look good,” I said to his cottage cheese and peaches, making a mental note to myself to dish some up once my toast popped. And I secluded myself in my father’s office to work on a paper.
One could pride me on being so diligent in my home work, or scorn my forgetfulness. See I had forgotten that, just a few days before, the toaster had quit working. It wouldn’t pop up on its own. I was peacefully oblivious to this, until . . .
My father doesn’t have a sense of smell. Can’t smell a thing. We would ask him to smell the scratch and sniff stickers as kids and then feel terribly guilty that we had forgotten, again, that he couldn’t smell like we could. It was fascinating though to see if such strong scents such as skunk could be picked up. But all in vain. So my dad didn’t smell the smoke. He was blissfully reading when a waft of smoke curled around his head. Surprised he turned around and gave a shout.
I came charging into the kitchen, the shout having reminded me that I needed to pop the toast. There were flames leaping, and I mean leaping, out of the toaster! Dad ran over and yanked the plug out of the wall and pulled the toast. I was amazed to see that even the toast itself was on fire. Little flames dancing all over it. While he ran to the sink with the toast I dove for the baking soda and emptied the entire box onto the toaster.
By now my mom and the piano student had joined the fray and I stood in the center. A very guilty look on my face and an empty box of baking soda in my hand. I gave a sheepish grin, and said, “Oops.” My parents just shook their heads. I think they were used to my escapades by now.
“Well, at least you saved the house.” Mom says.
“You wanted a new toaster right mom? Make a note of that dad.” I say. Then we, the piano student included, dissolved into laughter.
The mark remains to this day. The burnt bottom of the cabinet (the toaster is long gone). My family is now living in my parents house (they are serving a mission for our church so we are house sitting while they are gone) and my husband proudly points out my marvelous cooking skill to all who enter. “My wife can’t even cook toast without burning it, there’s the mark to prove it!”
He then gets an elbow in the ribs and we giggle and laugh thinking of all of my other misadventures.