There are times when I should not be allowed in the kitchen. Yesterday was one of them. With all the family over to help paint and clear out some underbrush, I was already going in six different directions when I decided to brown some loose sausage for a spaghetti lunch. Then several members of the work crew hinted that they hadn’t had any barbecue in ages, “And since we’re so close to the best barbecue in Colleton County . . ."
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll run over a get a few pounds.”
When I drove back into the yard, I was immediately greeted with the news that the smoke alarm had gone off. My favorite black iron frying pan lay on the ground outside the kitchen door—full of charred sausage. (Hey, I could have sworn I turned that pan off.)
Worse was to come. At sunset, everyone was tired and dirty and ready to hit the showers and have a drink before supper. The wonderful aroma of a well-garlicked leg of lamb had been drifting from the oven for over an hour and there were pointed questions about how much longer before we could eat.
“I’ll go put the potatoes on now,” I said and opened the oven door to check on the lamb. The first thing I saw was a layer of something sparkly on the oven floor. Small chunks of rock salt? Why would there be rock salt in my oven?
Then I pulled the roasting pan out far enough to read the meat thermometer and that’s when I realized that the glass face of the thermometer was missing.
Shards of glass were everywhere. The thermometer had exploded with such force that glass had been driven into the meat and splattered meat juices over the whole oven. I had burned food before, but in all my years of cooking, I had never shot it full of glass.
We had spaghetti for supper.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” my son told me. “I’m sure you’ll get a scene for the next book out of this.”
Hmmmmmm. Deborah’s Christmas turkey?