I’m about to start my massive baking event for Christmas cookies. Even though I live alone, I still feel compelled to make my usual ridiculous amount of sweets in hopes that MOTNSO (“More Often Than Not Significant Other”) soon will be here and take them off my hands. He has a sweet tooth that rivals mine.
It is not without trepidation that I enter my kitchen to do battle with my oven.
The other day a friend of mine was here and I noticed that she had a burn on her arm. I asked her about it; she said that this happens all the time…she is an “accident waiting to happen” in the kitchen.
I certainly know about that!
All you loyal blog-followers have heard any number of incidents where I have done faceplants, fallen down on moving walkways, etc. However, you don’t know all of the ridiculous things that have happened to me. I seemingly have a never-ending list of terrible tales when it comes to painful pratfalls.
Let me start by relating one of my most awful kitchen accidents.
Pregnant with my first in the very early ’70′s, long before Al Gore had invented the internet, my only source of information was literature. So, I read every book I could find about having a baby. A common theme that ran throughout all of them was diet. You needed to eat protein: eggs, meat, cheese, etc. I had some difficulty “digesting” some of these items. I had considerable nausea and was sleepy a lot of the time, but I was determined that this first child would have all the advantages necessary to begin life in a healthy manner.
All of those things that I was supposed to have in a balanced diet made me want to throw up. I wish I could say that in a nicer way, but I can’t. There was very little I could eat that wouldn’t wind up in the sewer system of Yonkers, which is where I lived at the time. I didn’t have “morning sickness” I had “morning, afternoon, coffee break, dinner, snack sickness.” About the only thing I could keep down was shrimp with lobster sauce. Go figure.
I decided that I needed to “camouflage” food.
Eggs? I found a recipe (in a cookbook, since the Food Network was barely a glint in the eye of some Cable Network Genius) for custard. It used lots of eggs, milk, etc. … most of what I should have been eating had I not felt like my stomach was somewhere up around my tonsils…and letting me know that’s where it was 24/7.
I mixed, I fixed, I popped it in the oven.
The little ringy dingy thing that was a timer in those days did its thing and I went to take it out of the what was a lower oven in the range that came with the apartment we were renting at the time in NY.
It was a tight fit, especially since I was sporting a bigger than usual belly.
I took the potholders, bent over and reached in, not realizing that I hadn’t quite fully opened the door to it.
Midway through removing the Pyrex dish with this eggy delight, the door swung up, catching me just above my elbows, which acted like a wedge, so that I couldn’t pull my arms out.
I screamed at the top of my lungs, which prompted The Ex to come flying out of the bedroom where he had been reading and see me, there, unable to move, with the custard mid-flight. He opened the door and that is how I got the two scars above my elbows where I had the third degree burns from the custard incident. I haven’t eaten custard since.
MOTNSO, who has been here on many an occasion to hear me yell “OUCH!” or “$%$@!” when some area of skin gets fried, has suggested buying me an asbestos suit to wear when I cook.
I didn’t think to write to Santa about that, but there is still a little time.
If you hear sirens in the vicinity of Dana Point, do not fear. It is not a wildfire. It’s just me making Christmas Tree cookies.
Have a wonderful Christmas!