I am a good cook. You wouldn’t know it, because it usually requires a very precise planetary alignment, that has to correlate with a recent grocery trip, a clean kitchen to start and, the real tricky one, me having enough energy to make food in order to witness me actually performing the act of cooking. I’m more than happy to eat things out of a can or snack on finger foods all day long. Eating a nice ‘meal’ would sure be great, but I can’t be bothered to get off my arse. So heated up can-soup and apples it is.
Yet it wasn’t always so. The way I know that I’m a good cook is that I used to actually cook. Yes, back when I was a cranky teenager living at my parents house, I cooked a lot. I distinctly remember having more energy back then. I don’t know, must’ve been that fresh prairie air and the piss and vinegar of the young.
Anywho. So one time I was hungry, home alone and willing to make myself some food. I’m building this up like it’s a fucking gourmet meal, but really, my ambitions were limited this particular day and I had chosen spaghetti with which to nourish myself. So, I went to work. I took out the pot, filled it up with water, turned on the burner. I spilled some water on the counter next to the stove, so I used some paper towel to wipe it up. Blah blah blah. The spaghetti was cooked, and I went to pick up the pot from the stove.
I grabbed it and was on my way to the sink to drain it, when I noticed that the wind I’d made by moving my arm had made the paper towel flutter. Brilliantly, I had left it beside the stove after my earlier accident. Before I knew it, the paper towel had made contact with the burner. It did NOT take long for that fucking thing to go ablaze.
And with that, I had set my kitchen on fire. Brilliant. Fucking genius, Talea.
So what was my first thought? What would you first thought have been? I’ll give you a second to think about it. You’re 14, home alone, and have just set the kitchen on fire………….you’re probably going to think……………”HOLY FUCK, my parents are going to kill me!” But then you’re going to think, “WATER! Water!!!! I must throw water onto this!”
Me? My first thought? Well, after being frozen for a second, then realizing I had approximately an hour to live since my parents were due home in about that time, I thought, “I NEED TO SMOTHER IT!!!”
I’m standing beside a sink with a sprayer, and the first thing I think while watching the stove burn is that I need to find something to smother it with. Clearly, I’m an idiot.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of those Costco sized bags of flour sitting on the floor. Yeah, we weren’t the classiest family on the block. Anyhow, I run like a maniac to the flour, and when I get there I realize, ‘Wait! Talea you fool! WATER!!!”
So then I run back to the sink. I grab a glass and turn on the tap and WASTE TIME waiting for it to fill up. Please remember that I earlier mentioned that the sink was equipped with one of those handy dandy sprayer things. Did I use this? No. I waited like a ‘tard for it to fill up, and then dumped one pissy little glass of water on my burning catastrophe. Then I went back to the sink and DID IT AGAIN.
Turns out I never did use the sprayer. Cuz I’m a smart kid like that.
I eventually put out the fire with pretty much no damage. The stove was a bit warped and we totally had to buy a new roll of paper towel, and I never did eat my spaghetti.
Maybe that’s why I never bought paper towel throughout four years of university. I thought it was poverty, but mayhaps it was an unconscious desire to maintain my uncharred house and body. Hmmmmmm, something to think about.
It could run in the family though, because my dad once set a potato on fire in the microwave.