Burning Down the House

First I need to thank God for a few things:

1. Mike's friend Jose, from whom we purchased our home who no doubt installed the fire extinguisher that saved my life tonight.

2. Adrenaline. Seriously. Without some f-ing animal instinct to run, grab, tear, and push - my house might not be here right now.

3. My husband who spent two hours cleaning every square inch of our monoammonium phosphate covered kitchen with me while I groveled for forgiveness.

I was planning to make tuna marchand de vin as a surprise for Mike after his hard day's work. Unexpectedly, as a result of the evening's debacle I've decided I'm upset at the British accent. That's right. If it weren't for the British accent tinged recipe urging me quite enthusiastically to channel my inner Child (Julia, that is) - I don't think my kitchen would have become alighted.

"...quite high heat..."

Who says things like "...quite high heat...?" It should have read, "...medium high heat, especially if you have a mother of a skillet that magnifies heat beyond supernormal levels..." That would have been appropriate. But no, I got a recipe from what I can only assume belongs to an old British man who insists on calling tuna with wine sauce tuna marchand de vin and telling little stories about wine merchants in the recipe. I was so happy, pretending to be a chef, armed with the accurate pronunciation of Le Creuset - I grabbed the cast iron skillet duly named and proceeded to increase the heat to “quite high” levels. Here's how it turned out if anyone else would like to try it...

Milena’s Recipe for Disaster

…turn heat to 8, what the hell, it says 'quite high'…
…Add a little olive oil…
…oh my, some smoke….
…quite a bit of smoke…
…fire? Oh my God…maybe if I take it off the burner…

...ah! It's getting bigger...

...oh my God I'm going to burn the house down!...
Running around the kitchen, grabbing the fire extinguisher, going blind, clawing at the mechanism that kept it on the wall…
…pin, do I pull the fucking pin?…
Pointing and shooting, grey dust leaps into the air…BEHIND ME…
…fuck!...
Turning extinguisher around, spraying…fire out...calm. Calm. Then dialing…
Through tears...excessive blubbering...

“Mike? I almost burned the house down, oh my God, I’m so sorry, I suck so bad…I ruined dinner…I’m so sorry…I’m okay, but I’m so stupid, oh my God…”

So, I ran to the bathroom and cried, running my bleeding hand under cold water (a deep scratch from tearing apart the extinguisher cover) until Mike came home just moments later, gave me a hug and made sure I was okay.

We salvaged only the baked potatoes as they had been safe inside the oven, accompanied by a side of last night's cold pizza, as everything else in the kitchen was covered in a fine gray dust. We turned on music, I requested Beyonce, we alternated between telling jokes and bickering to pass the time. At least now our kitchen is spotless.