Lighting a Fire to the Weekend

For a supposedly low-key weekend, Friday was to suggest anything but.
Having seen some of the children that I work with in the schools cooking up burrito's, I figured that Friday night I would do the same. I am smarter than a fifth grader, right? Hmmmm, questionable. So I was able to open up the canned beans and tomatoes without problem, was getting all the fix-ins in order flawlessly, all the while thinking: "Oh man, why don't I do this more often?"

Moments later, Amber and I found out why. The idea was a quick frying of the burrito shell in the vegetable oil which was on high on the stove top. Hopefully some of you are questioning, "High, oh no, not high you idiot!" Well, yes, apparently I am an idiot as the moment that I took off the lid from the frying pan the oil burst into flames!

No problem, right? Just cover it back up and turn off the heat. The only problem with my first instinct was the 2 foot high flames nearly licking the fan above. Second plan: throw it in the sink and pour copious amounts of water on it. Only problem: Amber has about fifteen dish towels in between me and the plastic filled sink. Option Three: Get the heck out of the house and toss it in the snow. Reality: moving quickly while holding three inches of flaming oil is difficult. At one point stepping on the carpet, I sloshed some of the burning contents on the carpet and POOF! now the carpets on first. Luckily it went out with little more than a singed mark.

And yet, I'm still 30 feet away from the apartment entrance while the flames are scorching my arm hair and Amber is already out the door and not even looking back. For better or for worse? Not if there's fire involved apparently.

Finally, I make it to the apartment door when I realize that I don't have my keys and I know Amber had thought about it as she ran a PR out the door. So, precariously holding the pan in one hand and holding the door open with one foot I reach for one of my Brooks Cascadia's to perch the door open. Yes! I'm free. I run to the building's entrance and toss the pan into the snow. Only there is no snow, just a bunch of wet grass... Or should I saw burnt wet grass.

Moral of the story: "Danny, you're not allowed in the kitchen ever again!"




More to come on the awesome snowshoe season finale up at Mt. Washington.