Dedicated Woodhaven Ramblings readers know that I have something of an amusing history attempting to cook and bake without killing anyone, going to the emergency room, or meeting the new guys at the fire station.
Just in case you thought I might be taking some literary license with my cooking stories or that my culinary prowess is a somewhat recent development, I submit you this:
The photo was taken in the early 1990s, probably our first or second Christmas together. Rob and I are sitting in my parents' livingroom and I have just opened a very appropriate gift from Mom and Dad: a fire extinguisher.
This was in response to my early marriage attempt to make toasted garlic bread with dinner. I got a little distracted and sort of forgot about the bread under the broiler and ended up setting off the smoke alarm.
Instead of removing the charring smoke source from the oven, I instead focused on trying to make the annoying beeping stop. Because that's just the sort of cook I am. As I stood on a chair trying to disconnect the batteries (totally unsuccessfully, mind you, since the alarm was hard-wired into the ceiling), the doorbell rang and Rob opened the front door to our apartment.
As a plume of smoke billowed out into the breezeway, a crowd of concerned neighbors asked if everything was OK.
Rob's timeless response: "Oh, everything's fine. My wife is just cooking."
I'd love to say this is my very first cooking-gone-awry story, but's it's not. It was my very first fire extinguisher, though.
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