A few days ago, I updated my Twitter and Facebook profiles with the following witty remark:
“I don’t dream about becoming rich. I just wish I could afford to hire a full-time chef. I SO hate to cook.”
Apparently, my oven subscribes to my Tweets. This evening, while my kids were outside playing basketball with some friends, and while I was in the middle of seasoning some hamburger for a delicious meatloaf, my preheating oven burst into flames. That’s right. It literally burst into flames.
In the space of what could not have been more than 1.8 seconds, the following thoughts flashed through my mind, in this order:
1. Karma sure is a bitch.
2. Where did I put that damned fire extinguisher?????????
3. Wait a sec…this place is insured for more money than it’s worth…
4. …but where’s the cat?
5. Shit! Looks like I’ll have to put the fire out.
And so I did, using my entire canister of baking soda (we buy it in bulk because I use it to clean). It made quite a mess. And now my oven is dead. Apparently my hubby can resurrect it with a new element, which he’ll buy this weekend. Along with another 12 pound bag of Arm & Hammer.
The good news is that our stovetop still works. We had hamburgers for supper. And Hazel is safe and sound.