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Kitchen Konfessions

Do you know what I find ironic? I use to write with frequency about my prowess in the kitchen. I even use to host a Homekeeping Column at Faithlifts.

But, if you’ll notice, I haven’t been dispensing any sage advice as of late.

A while back, I wrote of my adventures when, after 9 years, I finally employed the use of the “self cleaning” feature of my oven. And how I blew the house to smithereens.

Oh, I’m exaggerating. But I did nearly died from the fumes.

Well, to preserve the beauty of a clean oven, I placed heavy duty aluminum foil down on the bottom of the oven. Because I haven’t been able to locate the handy oven liners that you all told me about.

And, the oven isn’t due to be cleaned for another 8 years and 10 months. Give or take.

After incinerating cooking sweet potatoes one night for dinner, the foil was really put to the test by catching gooey sweet potato innards.

I congratulated myself on my brilliance about using Reynolds to aid me in the keeping of a clean oven. And then I forgot about the whole mess.

Avoidance is a favorite coping mechanism of mine.

Until the other night when I attempted to warm up a frozen pizza for the children.

Because I’m all about the importance of nutrition and a balanced diet, y’all.

The stench was unbearable. Even for my damaged olfactory senses.

The gooey mess was beginning to bubble and breathe, so I attempted to remove the foil.

While still cooking the pizza.

And the foil caught fire. With shooting flames and everything. Awesome.

After my recent post about blowing up the grill, you might think that I should only be trusted to use my speed dial to order out.

And you would be thinking what I’m thinking.

Trish called me after the smoke cleared. And I shared with her my folly. We both enjoy sharing our little foibles, because it always makes the other one feel a little bit better about their own life. We’re just giving that way.

She queried, “Well, how did you put the fire out?”

“With my breath. And thank goodness I hadn’t been drinking.”

Which I say only because Fiddledaddy recently surprised me with a much deserved bottle of Mocha Kahlua. Forget flowers, that man knows my love language.

Please don’t get the idea that I’m a drinker. It’s usually a rare, yet bloggable event when I drink.

Like when Fiddledaddy gets home after a long business trip.

Or when my MIL talks me into splitting a bottle of fine screw-top Port. And then attempts to cheat in a wild game of Scrabble.

Or after AWANA.

I hardly ever drink.


Where was I? Oh yes. My kitchen was ablaze.

Thankfully, the fire was extinguished, and the pizza saved. And as an added bonus, I retained the use of my eye brows.

My children are a bit shell shocked though. When I took the flame thrower (aka: long Bic lighter) into a class I’m teaching for our homeschool group, to demonstrate an experiment, all the homeschoolers drew closer for a better look.

All except for my daughter. Who with wide eyes, backed up to the wall, “NO MOMMY. NOT FIRE!”

The other children in our home have been holding clandestine fire drills when they think I’m not paying attention.

Which has me doing some calculating. Frankly, I think that it would be more cost effective to order out all meals in the House of Fiddle.

What with the rising cost of insurance. Not to mention the therapy bills.

That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

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