Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Burn, baby, burn

I hate grocery shopping.

And because I hate grocery shopping, I will often go without the essentials - like fruit snacks. And when I don't have my emergency stash of fruit snacks to satisfy my late-night sweet tooth, bad things happen. I turn to my cookbooks.

Such was the situation on a fateful January night when I decided that I needed something sweet. I perused my cookbooks and found a delicious recipe for blondies. All went well until I needed to pull the pan from the oven.

Now, because the idiot who designed this apartment put the smoke detector ridiculously close to the oven, whenever I cook, I'm forced to do a spin move that would make any NFL coach proud. I have to open the oven door, grab the dish, slam the oven door shut, spin, grab a towel and wave it in front of the smoke detector and hope like hell it won't go off. Especially since I'm usually cooking at 11 p.m.

As the timer beeped to tell me my blondies were done, I mentally prepared myself for the move. I quickly opened the oven and grabbed the pan when all of a sudden I started to fumble the dish. Now, I've seen enough Packers games to know exactly what I needed to do. I caught that ball - um, pan - of blondies with my forearm and kept it from crashing to the ground. And in that instant, I knew that was a stupid, stupid thing to do.

I threw the pan on the stove and stuck my arm under a stream of cold water until my fingernails turned purple, but it was too late. The damage had been done. I watched as the outline of the Pyrex dish slowly raised out of my skin.

Now I'm left with a bathroom full of first-aid supplies I didn't know even existed and a gaping hole the size of a silver dollar where my forearm used to be.

And still no fruit snacks.

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