I was proud of myself, I had the vegetable concoction baking alongside a pan of gluten-free brownies for my friend, and a pan of gluten-filled brownies for my family. I eyed the hamburger meat on a plate and decided to stick them in the oven, too. I thought it would be easier than using a pan.
“A frying pan is just too risky for me,” I reasoned, “Three of the four kitchen fires I’ve had were due to frying pan mishaps.”
I cleaned up as I went, progress smooth, then I opened the oven door and a hot wave hit my face, my glasses steamed up, the room filled with the greasy smoke from the hamburgers.
Our fire alarm rang out. I slammed the metal tray on the stove top, grabbed my cell phone, and called 911.
“Please notify the fire department that there’s no problem.”
“We have to get all your information first….”
“Please, just tell them not to come! There’s no fire.”
I got through spelling my last name, three times, first name, street name all in a breathless panic. I hung up with 911.
At that moment, the alarm company called, “Should we call and tell the fire department not to come?”
“Yes, but you’re going to be too late, they’re usually here in under five minutes…”
As I said that, the red hook and ladder truck appeared in front of our house.
“They’re here. Thanks anyways…” I went out to greet the firefighters.
“Come in! Come in! I tried to call them off but you’re too quick!”
“Are there flames this time?”
“Oh no, just smoke."
“Have you fixed the floor yet?”
“No, I thought it’d be a good reminder to be more careful…”
“Well, it has been a few years now.” He addressed two younger firefighters, “You have to check out the burn mark on the floor – now that was a fire!”