the first casualty of the kitchen is justice
The problem with being hopelessly incompetent in the kitchen is that you get blamed when kitchen things go wrong… and it’s not ALWAYS your fault. Take for instance this weekend, where I made myself a lovely mushroom pizza and cooked it in the oven. The pizza itself turned out to be delicious, if a little watery (I was pleased that I’d navigated the precarious bocconcini to mushroom ratio with some success, despite the wateriness issue). I’d tidied up the kitchen and was engrossed in the latest episode of “The Fall” when my housemate came home. She made herself a sandwich and plonked down at the kitchen table to eat it. And then suddenly an explosive BAM rang out from the kitchen. I raced in and another BAM sounded and glass started flying out and around the kitchen floor. We took cover behind the kitchen counter, wide-eyed and with expletives flying. Another BAM sounded and then a shower of glass rained down. I popped my head above the counter and saw that all of the glass was coming out of the grill at the bottom of the oven.
We raced to put on shoes and then tentatively inched forward. As we eased into the kitchen, crouched and prepared for more BAMs at any moment, I couldn’t help but feel that this was what being in a war zone was probably like (except obviously with less explosively messy oven grills and more bombs, bloodshed, gunfire, casualties and other warlike elements not found in my suburban kitchen). I took the lead and I readied myself to yell “Take cover!” before heroically diving on my housemate to protect her from glassy shrapnel or other kitchen IEDs… but everything was now eerily quiet. I reached the oven and stared at my housemate for a moment before whispering “If I don’t make it out of this, tell my dog I love her”. And then, showing extreme courage in the face of kitchen danger, I grabbed hold of the grill door and sssslllllooooowwwwlllly pulled it open. A further shower of glass scattered around and both my housemate and I screamed, expecting another BAM. But no BAM occurred and when we looked inside the grill door we saw that the glass panel on the back of the door had shattered.
Most of the pieces were already broken off and on the floor but a few chunks remained. It was bloody thick glass and somehow it must have cracked and/or exploded. Since I’d used the oven an hour before, my housemate (and others who have heard about the event) have laid the blame firmly on my innocent shoulders - I didn’t even touch the grill!! It hurts that without any actual evidence, and after my selfless kitchen bravery, I’m being falsely and unfairly accused of a kitchen explosion I did not commit. Hopefully when we get some oven glass shattering specialist in this week to look at the grill I will be exonerated… but until then, my reputation has been cruelly maligned. And I even cleaned up all the glass on the floor too!! Oh I feel the pangs of this injustice very keenly. I am innocent! You believe me, don't you livejournal??
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We raced to put on shoes and then tentatively inched forward. As we eased into the kitchen, crouched and prepared for more BAMs at any moment, I couldn’t help but feel that this was what being in a war zone was probably like (except obviously with less explosively messy oven grills and more bombs, bloodshed, gunfire, casualties and other warlike elements not found in my suburban kitchen). I took the lead and I readied myself to yell “Take cover!” before heroically diving on my housemate to protect her from glassy shrapnel or other kitchen IEDs… but everything was now eerily quiet. I reached the oven and stared at my housemate for a moment before whispering “If I don’t make it out of this, tell my dog I love her”. And then, showing extreme courage in the face of kitchen danger, I grabbed hold of the grill door and sssslllllooooowwwwlllly pulled it open. A further shower of glass scattered around and both my housemate and I screamed, expecting another BAM. But no BAM occurred and when we looked inside the grill door we saw that the glass panel on the back of the door had shattered.
Most of the pieces were already broken off and on the floor but a few chunks remained. It was bloody thick glass and somehow it must have cracked and/or exploded. Since I’d used the oven an hour before, my housemate (and others who have heard about the event) have laid the blame firmly on my innocent shoulders - I didn’t even touch the grill!! It hurts that without any actual evidence, and after my selfless kitchen bravery, I’m being falsely and unfairly accused of a kitchen explosion I did not commit. Hopefully when we get some oven glass shattering specialist in this week to look at the grill I will be exonerated… but until then, my reputation has been cruelly maligned. And I even cleaned up all the glass on the floor too!! Oh I feel the pangs of this injustice very keenly. I am innocent! You believe me, don't you livejournal??
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