...and it's only Wednesday. I'll skip most of the details except to say that I kinda-sort tried to burn down the house yesterday. E wanted me to cook some chicken he'd left in the fridge so it would be ready for him to whip up into a chicken salad for dinner, so I stuck it on the grill pan about 20 minutes before I needed to leave to pick up Wonderboy from school. It wasn't quite done as I headed out the door, so I turned off the stove, but left the pan on the burner to finish off. Or so I thought.
We returned 45 minutes later to a smoke-filled house, smelling something like a cross between wet dog + decaying flesh. Oddly enough the smoke detectors didn't consider putrid smoke a threat. And if you're wondering what happens to chicken when cooked about 45 minutes too long - well, it turns to tar. Sticky oozing caramelized chicken-tar. I don't think I'll ever get the deepest-most recesses of my olfactory spaces properly aired out after this one. Fortunately I think I can salvage the Le Creuset pan, but only because it's cast iron and I think you can pretty much always salvage cast iron, otherwise the pan would have been a casualty for certain.
Wonderboy determined that I must have especially bad luck. First, to have burned the chicken, second, to have stinky smoke everywhere, and third, to have filled the house with flies. He despaired, "I think my birthday is spoiled!"
Things quickly looked up however, when he retrieved a fly swatter from the garage and obliterated a fly. He squealed, "Never mind mom! This is the best day ever!" I'm puzzled. Which is worse? That he decided burnt chicken = spoiled birthday, or that the demise of an insect = Best Day Ever?
But the fun never ends around here. Wonderboy insists he must not actually be six years old since his sneakers still fit. And I woke up to this cheerful good morning greeting in the powder room from E:
This is just the kind of thing he does. You know, just to keep the flame alive, and all that.
Own your own shame, man, own your own shame.
3 comments:
Smoke, now that's comething we are experts on-almost 2 years to the date! I still smell it in my dreams so, Birthday Boy, I understand a ruined day. I'll be thinking of your pan. Mom
Ohhh that is a bad day. Love the toilet.
Amy and my Dad got into a "toilet issue" while they were all staying here the weekend we blessed Boo. You've never lived until your sister comes out of the bathroom in her Tweety Bird Pj's and her own father is trying to blame her for the damage HE caused moments earlier.
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