who floods a stove?
I was having a conversation with someone today, explaining why it wouldn't be a good idea for me to attempt to use a firearm (even in the most supervised of situations.) I mean, I'm not even allowed to use the really sharp knives in my kitchen (I'm far too accident prone for that) and more than once, I've been banned from lighting fires in the fireplace. I'm a danger magnet who has destroyed pink heating pad hearts by leaving the burner unattended while boiling it in water, fallen into the chicken pen while stepping over the mesh fencing, and stepped on my own curling iron (while it was on) getting second degree burns on the soft underside of my toes. (Yeah, tell me about it!) If that isn't enough evidence for you, how about the time I flooded the stove?
Flooded the stove, you say? How...exactly...does one flood a stove? Well, let me tell you, shall I?
Hop into my little time machine and let's head back to Feb 2010 for a few minutes.
It was a relatively boring day—nothing much to write about really. I woke up late like most mornings and rushed around to find something to wear. I got dressed in my closet to save time, and managed to wear my underwear inside out for the third time this week, which is actually an improvement for me! I also ended up wearing unmatched socks because I figured that a) no one would notice, (which they didn’t) and b) they were both the same color, if not the same shade. Nothing exciting happened at work. I did my usual Tuesday client visits with a business partner. We worked for a while before having sushi for lunch—yes, I had the beaver roll, and yes, I ate it with chopsticks! (I guess you had to be there.) We had to eat somewhere good, because my coworker was so hungry she swallowed a twig while scarfing down the nuts that spilled out onto the floor of her car and nearly choked to death! After lunch I worked some more. Then I went home to get the girls and sat, paralyzed with fear, in the passenger seat of my car as my sixteen year old daughter drove me around town. After I dropped them off at a friend’s house, I stopped to shop for a minute. (Can’t discuss what I bought or how much I spent on the off chance my husband reads this blog too.) Then I had this brilliant idea to go home and surprise Mike with a home cooked meal. Me, the restaurant queen, was going to cook dinner. Before you gasp with shock and amazement, I do actually know how to cook. I may not use them often enough, but I actually have some skills in the kitchen. Because Mike loves to cook, our kitchen was fully stocked, and I didn’t even need to make a grocery run before heading home.
When my husband and I built our house (pre-farmhouse mind you), we incorporated a gourmet kitchen into the plans. The kitchen has 2 sinks—one in the island for prep work and one in the counter for large pans—and a pot-filler faucet above the six-burner stove. A pot-filler is nothing more than a faucet installed above the stove. There is no drain below that faucet; it’s just for filling pots. This is precisely why I should have stayed right by the stove while I was filling the pot to boil the pasta. I should not have stepped away to let the dogs back in. And I definitely should not have paused to answer the phone after that (even if it was my mother!)
I don’t know how long I was away from the stove when I heard the sound of running water. (The kind of running water that is pouring from somewhere it should not be pouring from and splashing against a surface it should not be splashing against.) I ran back to the stove to find the stock pot overflowing and water spilling over the burners, disappearing somewhere inside and then seeping out of the oven door below. My reaction was a hearty, “OH CRAP!” as I, first shut off the faucet, and second, rushed around trying to find something to soak up the water that was literally everywhere! I was cursing my husband loudly because he refused to let me order the ShamWow that I'd seen on late night TV just recently. He said it was stupid, and who would ever need to soak up that much liquid with a rag? Right? Who indeed? If I'd gotten a ShamWow, the flood would have been instantly absorbed into the magic cloth!
I realized right then that I was a modern day Lucy Ricardo and I was going to be in a lot of trouble when Ricky got home!
And that brings me back to the beginning.
I am no longer allowed to use the stove or the fireplace. I had already almost set fire to the house on three separate occasions while building a fire in said wood burning fireplace, which is why I am forbidden to play with matches. But, who floods a stove? In most houses that’s not even an option. Not even possible!
Only I could flood a stove.
Now I will never be allowed to cook either. And I had been doing so well. I was almost incident free…in the kitchen anyway. I had a slight mishap the other day with a grilled cheese sandwich, but that was just minor—a lot of smoke, but no fire. I was only given a warning that time. And come on…admit it…it’s easy to get distracted when you have teenagers, and pets…and a daily blog to write!
Until the next time…I’ll be staying away from sharp objects and open flames.