Gas Fire, a Memoir

On a Saturday not so very long ago, I went grocery shopping with my mom and got a little inspired in the spice aisle.  Frequently this happens to me--it seems like there's a whole world of different tastes out there and, if I can just master the combination of a variety of them, I can come up with some sort of masterful dinner creation that will wow Andy and inspire poetry in him.  Or, at the very least, a proposal.  Anyway, the curry powder caught my eye and reminded me in general of a summer spent studying abroad and specifically of an afternoon at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, Turkey.  Once I was able to pry my sorority sister/best friend/roommate away from a chubby Turkish man encouraging her to "look into my eyes and smell my love tea," I walked past a beautiful display of spices, piled high in huge ceramic pots.  The smell is one that I have grown to associate with Turkey--and curry was one of those spices.

My mother, a curry hater, wrinkled her nose when I put it in the cart.  But I put it in the cart regardless, determined to master the art of Thai cooking.  Andy loves Thai.

I spent the drive back to school the following Monday morning musing about my recent spice inspiration and dreaming up all of the interesting things I could make with it.  The possibilities felt intoxicating, and I was eager to put Mitzi, my KitchenAid mixer, to good use.  I decided that the first thing I would do would be to make a breader to fry chicken with, just as an introduction to the culinary art that is cooking with curry.  As a spice, it was relatively foreign to me--which was part of the mystery and intrigue that I felt whenever I pondered the possibilities.  I spent several unproductive clinic hours envisioning what I would use to create my perfect fried curry chicken breader--it would include flour (of course), a little egg, a little milk, some smoked paprika, salt, and some curry powder.  I tasted the breader and it seemed pretty good to me.  Definitely worth a try.  I knew that, like all recipes, you generally have to make them a time or three before you really get the science down.  I wasn't swayed.  I knew that if I was brave some sort of culinary masterpiece would prevail.

I got my smallest frying pan out, because, lets face it, I wasn't exactly preparing to feed an army.  Cursing my crooked burners (they've been that way all along), I put a bit of oil in the bottom of the pan and turned on the burner.  While waiting for it to heat up, my phone started to ring.  It was Andy--and I never miss a call from Andy if I can help it--so I answered.  We were chatting, and I was covering up my chicken with my brilliant breading when I bumped the frying pan.
Big mistake #1.

Because the left side of the burner faced lower than the right side, a little oil sloshed out of the side of the pan.  "I'll call you back! I HAVE A FIRE!" were literally the words I screamed at Andy as I hung up on him, and threw the phone down on the counter.

I know you think that, in moments of crisis, you will remember all the things you learned at Girl Scout camp about what to do in emergency situations.  Like, what to do if you're being attacked from behind, how not to tip a canoe, what to put on campfire burns.  And how to put out grease fires.  Of course, as I'm sure you know, and as, I can assure you, I knew, too, you can never, ever, never, I repeat NEVER put water on it.  But of course, you won't remember.  And I didn't either.

I quickly filled a cup with water and threw it on the fire.
Big mistake #2.

Instantly, I had flames that were about a foot and a half high, reaching from my stove top to the hood.  My first thought: Save Betty! (Betty is my little pet bunny.  A lot of haters call her "bitch bunny," but I fiercely maintain that she is simply misunderstood.)
My second thought: If if I have to call 911 to get the firefighters out here, my landlord will find out I have a pet.
My third thought: Will I have time to save Walter, my Wii, too?
Luckily, by then, I wised up a little.  I threw a kitchen rag over it and turned the burner off.  The flames died down and I was able to take a moment to still my rapidly beating little heart.  My hands shook.  My hair flew in wild spirals around my reddened face.  But the fire was out.

I called my mom and, after she did the mom thing and made sure me and my Betty were okay, she told me a story, from which I gleaned two very important details:
1. One Halloween, my dad was the Jolly Green Giant, complete with green paint.  If you know my dad, you know that is a very funny piece of information.
2. My parents burned down their farm.

Okay, I exaggerated a BIT on number 2.  They did not burn down their WHOLE farm, but they did burn up three acres before the firemen arrived on the weekend after Halloween one year a million years ago when they were in college.  When the firemen were talking to my dad, he still had a little bit of green paint on the inside of his ear.  That's how number 1 ties in.  Anyway, learning about how my very, very careful father set fire to the farm that he bought with the money he earned trapping muskrats in high school and saved until he had enough to buy a farm of his very own made me feel a little bit better about (1) starting a grease fire and (2) trying to put out said grease fire with water.  At least I didn't burn three acres.  In fact, there was no damage.  My frying pan, my oven, my hood, and even my dishtowel survived, completely unscathed. 

I baked my curry chicken in the oven instead.  It wasn't that great.