Yesterday, since I didn’t have lunch-hour floor duty and since I was starving and never bring one to work, I decided to come home for lunch. I think I frightened Rob, bursting into the house like I did, but he was good about it.
My lunch was delicious, too. I made a grilled cheese sandwich with real cheese (not processed slices). Glass of milk. Yum.
I left my pan and the spatula on the stove, because I thought Rob would probably want to cook himself something (I’m not that nice of a wife that I would cook for him, too – actually that’s not true, it’s that he was not ready to eat and ew, cold grilled cheese!). Turned the stove off. Came into the livingroom to eat because we don’t have a dining room/kitchen table. Couple of minutes later I smelled smoke.
And, in the kitchen, where I *thought* I had turned off the stove, I had actually not quite nudged it far enough, so it was on maximum. The spatula had melted, so the handle was sitting on the stovetop and the flat paddle part was in the pan, on fire. Flames everywhere. What’s a girl to do? I blew on the fire, which, amazingly, put it out (but a red-hot plastic ember landed on my thumb, blistering me somethin’ awful), then plunged it into a sinkful of cold water. That frying pan is ruined, not to mention the spatula.
And after all this, Rob actually trusted me to cook supper last night.

*you definitely recognize that title, don’t you? C’mon people, don’t make me feel like a total loser.