I keep trying to ignore this potholder that's floating around the kitchen. It's old. I only have a few. I've got one "glove style" holder that I never use because it freaks me out. And I've got two square holders. They've been in the kitchen since before I moved in. That glove holder...I just have an aversion to sticking my hand inside that thing. Gives me the willies. (It might help you to understand why it gives me the willies but a post describing my move to lovely Hunt Valley in Baltimore County is for another time. For now, suffice it say that the glove pot holder gives me the willies. I know I could throw it in the washing machine but I just never do. I think for some reason (armchair psychologists take note) I need that glove to give me the willies. I need to occasionally see it lurking around at the back of the drawer and sort of leering at me from the shadows.
It's just awkward, that's what it is. He sits back there trying to goad me into a confrontation. Hi Jen. I'm still here. And I'm still creepy. Go ahead...open me. Check out my lining. Stick just a finger in; I know you want to feel ballsy enough. Go ahead. I nervously avert my eyes and shift him only with the very tips of my thumb and index finger if he's in the way of a more welcoming pot holder or dishtowel. And how can he still be somehow in the way occasionally? If I've moved him in the past, and I never choose him over the others, then how does he end up on top of them?!?! I shudder a little when I have to move him. Just a little. It would be almost imperceptible if not for my quickened pace as I beat a hasty retreat over to the sink to wash my fingers off. Fucking asshole glove. And I'm too chickenshit to throw him out. He's obviously in better shape then these other potholders. I'll probably need him one day. If I throw him out, I don't want to suffer the charma of what is essentially a murder and unceremonious burial. I better just leave him back here.
So the other two potholders see a lot of action. I am a klutz. A big one. But I cook a lot, so even though I sometimes leave the kitchen with a random burn or cut, I often employ the use of all the usual kitchen suspects and the pot holders are no exception. These two potholders...they don't match. They aren't even the same thickness. I notice that it's still possible to burn the shit out of my fingers while these little soldiers are at battle. They're just old. But they aren't as creepy as Glovey. (I can't help it, I swear.)
So one morning maybe a week ago, I walk into the kitchen after I get out of the shower to heat water on the stove for the coffee maker. I do this naked, as is my habit every morning. I don't know what to tell you; I leave the shower with my hair wrapped in a towel, report to the kitchen to put water on the stove, and then retreat to the bathroom to put moisturizer on my legs, gel in my hair, etc. Since we are living in a condominium that is about one third to one half underground, we are often a subject of interest for the voyeuristic senior citizens who live among us. (Yet another future post....) Anyhoo, by the time I'm done with the gel, the water is boiling and I can travel back to the kitchen and deal with the french press. (Yes...all of you coffee snobs; I know I'm not really supposed to boil the water before I pour it. Make your coffee your way, I'll make mine my way.)
On this particular morning, when I return (with my naked self...yow!) to the kitchen I smell something. I don't see anything, but I smell something sort of burning. I sort of shrug my I-haven't-had-any-coffee-yet-obviously-so-dealing-with-any-sort-of-drama-at-this-point-is-not-desirable shoulders and just go about the business of preparing the coffee. A small tendril of smoke appears. It curls off of the burner (remind me about a forthcoming post regarding hatred for electric cooking) and it smells awful. I sort of wave at it. I'm all aggravated that I have to spend time on this as my morning free time is very precious.
The tendril turns into a slightly thicker snake of smoke. Just a garter snake at this point, but never-the-less a snake. Sigh....fucking burner. So how come I never ever notice that when the kitchen is producing smoke either by toaster oven (another future post) or by oven, or stove, it's the whole kitchen that fills up sort of quickly, and not just the concentrated area where the snake is? You know... smoke... it has its way of filling up a room and all.
Yes indeedy. Smoke detector. Goin off. Loudly.
The smoke detector (we don't get along....ever.) is now alerting me that there might be a problem. Thanks asshole. My boyfriend is still in bed. He will occasionally be up and ready to roll out at the same time as me but he certainly doesn't have to leave at the same time- our jobs are much different. And you should understand that he is 1) a musician and 2) a vampire. This means (for now...but I'm betting you'll hear more about this at some point) that he is almost completely nocturnal. He is most productive between the hours of five or six o'clock in the afternoon to five o'clock in the morning.
I am (naked) madly trying to wave off the smoke. I have the sliding glass door off of the kitchen wide open, and I have no way to disable the smoke detector (I know that's what you were thinking) The noise in concert with the early rising community of senior citizens provides a mildly entertaining, and mildly stressful blend of "I know those bastards can see me through the fucking window."
A very small but evident yellow little flame ignites at the source of the smoke. I grab one of the two square potholders (see how that came around? Told ya I have a propensity for making short stories long...) and try to slap out the flame as the towel is unraveling from it's turbon like perch upon my head. Through the forest of fabric that is now dangling in my line of vision, I notice the potholder ignite. Oh, for shit's sake. "Motherfucker!!!!" I continue to aid the poor thing to safety and smoush all the flames out. I toss it across the kitchen (one of the ancient villiagers is going so slowly by my kitchen window as she walks her stupid little dog) and it lands in the sink, its scar of concentric circles still warm to the touch.
As it is now fairly smoky (even I can recognize that), I leave the kitchen which is now pretty much under control (I guess) to steal the fan from the bedroom. Upon entering, I realize this whole debaucle ( a word I am fond of and for some reason reminds me of a word my brother-in-law might use) has probably awakened the vampire. And said vampire is not a fan of my smoke detector follies.
I enter the room. "Sorry. I don't know why it's going off, there isn't anything on fire...." (Yes, I lied twice in one sentence, fuck off.)
Boyfriend: (faintly) "mmphgh chgmthfg...."
Alrighty then.
The potholder -the one with the concentric circle branding- stayed on the rim of the sink for four days. Four. Days. Why you ask? Because I know it should be thrown out. It's old. And I have a perfectly good glove style pot holder in the drawer.
Glovey.
...nope. What's a little burn on a potholder? Adds character, right? You know the owner of a pot holder with battle wounds has been busy in the kitchen. I consider that potholder a badge of honor. (It'll be between you and me that I wasn't actually cooking anything when the aforementioned battle wounds were inflicted.)
* I swear this blog won't be entirely populated with kitchen screw ups. Glovey has been on my mind for a couple weeks and it just seemed appropriate to get it squared away.
** I love to see comments pop up after I write, but please goddess; don't remind me of the serious nature of the kitchen and fire saftey. I know. I swear.
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