I don’t cook. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly CAN cook, I just don’t.
I claim that I don’t have the time, but this is possibly the biggest load of crap you will ever hear. I go to work, and am home around 6 PM. After that, I have nary an obligation in the world. I live alone, and am accustomed to living in my own filth, so I don’t have to clean up. Since I don’t cook, I have no dishes to wash. I only get one channel, so it isn’t like I have a stellar evening of television lined up that will keep me from the kitchen. I don’ t even have a fucking goldfish that I need to feed.
I come home and I do nothing. I feel this is appropriate and excusable, since my job makes me want to shoot people and tricks me into thinking my head is always 3.8 seconds away from blowing up. It’s a good balance, my insane work day/doing nothing at home thing. Work tires me out, I take it easy. Makes sense.
I therefore have about 6 hours to make myself a meal each night. I have nobody else’s dietary preferences to consider, I have nothing to schedule the cooking around. I don’t have to share the kitchen with anybody, nor clean up their mess before I can start making one of my own.
The fact is, I’m a lazy fucker. LAZY.
I usually feast on spaghetti, or a lovingly prepared frozen dinner. Even then, the tray winds up on my counter, it doesn’t even make it to the garbage.
LAZY (see above).
Tonight, I decided to break from the norm. I thought I’d shake it up a bit. Rediscover my inner Nigella (that sounds dirty).
I didn’t want to go too crazy, so I chose something simple. A pre-cooked, pre-marinated, pre-packaged, perfectly proportioned chicken breast. All I had to do was plop it in a frying pan, heat, and voila. Okay. Done.
So Mr. Chicken is doing his thing on burner A, while I fire up burner B to use to make some of my gastronomic specialty……..spaghetti.
As I wait for the water to boil, I wash a few dishes that were in the sink from the fiance’s visit this weekend. I start to smell something funny. It smells like melting plastic, but not quite. I crank open a window to air it out.
I poke around the stove, making sure nothing plastic is resting on either of the burners. Please note that I don’t have a light in my kitchen (yeah…..), but I’m pretty sure that there’s nothing there. I open my fridge to use the light in there to help me see (yeah……) and it seems to be all good.
I shrug and continue doing dishes. The smell intensifies. Hmmmmm. I wash a fork. Then suddenly, I hear the unmistakable ‘POP’ of ignition.
Annnnnnnd we have fire. Oh joy, oh joy, my kitchen is on fucking fire.
I am instantly thrown into a fit of deja vu, where I was 12 and got the paper towels a little too close to the burner. Those fuckers are flammable, let me tell YOU.
After reliving that tragic childhood memory, I realize I need to do something. I freak out, then grab the pot of water and chuck it into the sink. Right. Because using the water to pour ONTO THE FIRE would have been too smart. I think I didn’t do that because I was worried it was maybe a grease fire, from the fiance cooking during the weekend.
I hesitantly turn my back on my wee bonfire to grab some flour. I will smother it! I turn back around, armed with some good old All Purpose Baking Flour only to see the last few flames flickering out. Turns out, it’s windy tonight and since I’d cracked the window, it blew out the little flamey bastards before they had a chance to take hold and destroy my life.
Shaken but hungry, I refilled the pot of water and placed it on burner C to boil the damn water. Burner C starts smoking instantly. Turn Burner C off. Transfer pot of water to Burner D, turn Burner D on. Burner D also starts billowing smoke from under the pot.
Turn off Burner A, which has been happily cooking my chicken this whole time. Swear. Dial Pizza Nova. Order medium pizza. Write blog, while waiting for pizza guy to show up. Remember to never attempt cooking again.
Edited after Josh’s comment: I have NO idea what caught on fire. I called the fiance and asked him in an accusatory manner what he had done. He feigned ignorance. I’m going with grease splatters from his chicken adventures.