Sunday, August 22, 2010

Burnt box

On the heels of my August newspaper article with a recipe for making garlic fries, complete with directions on how to put out a grease fire, I attempted to set my own kitchen on fire.  But not with peanut oil.  Oh no.  I tried to do it with a pizza box.  There I was one evening last week, aproned up, sipping a glass of chilled Bouysse, chatting with the Ex-Ex and sautéeing carrots and celery.  Something seemed to be burning, but my pan wasn't too hot.  All of a sudden smoke started pouring from the oven vent at the back of the stove.  I had turned the oven on to preheat at 425F without checking to see if anything was in it.  Made perfectly good sense to me since I am the cooker in the family and the only one who uses the oven (with the exception of an occasional frozen pizza prepared by one of the eaters).  But the Ex-Ex all of a sudden remembered the pizza box he had stashed in there the night before, not wishing to take it out to the recycling bin at 11:00 pm.  I grabbed an oven mitt, yelled at him to open the back door and I flung the smoking, charred box onto the deck.  (I did not take the time to take a photo... I recreated it from Skitch, a program I just learned to use.  Mr. S would be so proud of me.)  The house only slightly smells of smoke as I write this.  The batteries need to be replaced in the smoke alarms.  They didn't make a peep.  Good thing it wasn't while we were sleeping.  And I learned a valuable lesson.  Always check the oven before turning it on.  You just never know.

Bon appétit!

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