There is a story that lives on in infamy in my family. You know how these kinds of stories go:
- Family member makes stupid mistake.
- Rest of family never lets him/her forget it.
When I was a kid, probably somewhere around age 11, I was sitting with my older brother at the kitchen table, watching my mother cook dinner.
To understand something about my mother, I feel it is important you should know: Her definition of “cooking” is that “heat was involved.” Therefore, if she makes you toast? She made you dinner.
(Just in case you ever wondered where I get my “standards” from.)
So my mom was “cooking,” when suddenly a wall of flames shot up from the frying pan in a brilliant and unexpected light display.
My brother and I were a little unsure of what to do, despite having taken all the proper fire safety training classes in school (feel a door with the back of the hand for heat before touching the knob, crawl to maximize oxygen intake, etc).
My mom danced around a bit, threw a lid on the flame, and that was the end of that.
Smoke swirling through the air, she turned to us with the calmest of expressions and said:
“Your grandparents are coming over tomorrow. I think it’s best that we don’t mention this. Wouldn’t want to worry them.”
We could read between the lines: Don’t tell on me to my mom. Being loyal to our mother (after all, she made us a lovely dinner), we decided that absolutely, our lips were sealed.
The next day, my grandparents came over and inevitably, my grandfather walked into the kitchen.
He glanced around, looked at us and said:
“So, what’s new?”
And my brother, being the older and wiser of us, blurted out:
“We had a grease fire … Wait … NO WE DIDN’T!”
Linking up to Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop.
The prompt: Tell a story where someone is playing with fire.