"You should probably get some clothes on, our house will be full of firemen any minute." The words spilled out of my mouth as I stood in the room that would one day be filled with the laughter of our future kids, thinking about how they'd stand there mixing up something sweet. I must have sounded a little too cheerful, considering the situation.
He turned to look at me, standing in the middle of our charred kitchen, his expression a mix of disbelief and irritation. "What?" he asked, his voice tinged with confusion. I burst out laughing, partly because it was absurd and partly because I knew I had to take responsibility for the mess. I mean, it was my fault—again. The fire, the chaos, the whole nine yards—it was all me. But hey, who can resist trying new recipes?
Just four weeks ago, we exchanged vows, promising forever in that tropical paradise. Now here we were, still basking in the afterglow of our honeymoon, and already knee-deep in kitchen disasters. Our guests were due to arrive any moment, and I was determined to pull this off. The juiciest chicken thighs marinated in tequila and lime were roasting in the oven, the salsa was freshly chopped and waiting on the table, and the guacamole was creamy perfection. All that was missing was one last touch—fried plantains. Easy, right?
Wrong. My frying pan wasn’t exactly top-notch, but I was confident I could pull it off. I poured some fresh oil into the pan, covered it with a glass lid, and cranked up the heat. The music played softly in the background, and I could feel him behind me, his hands briefly resting on my lower back before he headed upstairs for a quick shower. Life was good, despite the impending chaos.
That’s when I remembered the pan. Lifting the lid, I saw flames licking at the edges. Before I could react, the entire stove was engulfed in fire. Panicking, I tried to smother the flames with the lid, but it was too hot, too chaotic. In a desperate move, I dropped the lid, only to watch it shatter into pieces among the inferno. Great. Just great.
I bolted upstairs, screaming like a banshee, bursting into the bathroom where my husband was mid-shower, soap suds covering his head. "THERE’S A FIRE IN THE KITCHEN!!" I yelled, as though the sound of running water would somehow mute me. He peered out from the suds, his expression a mix of shock and amusement. "Why are you in here?!" he asked, clearly baffled.
"I can’t put it out!" I stammered, running back downstairs to find him hot on my heels, dripping wet. The fire had grown exponentially, reaching for the cabinets around the stove. "Where’s the lid?!" he demanded, pointing to the broken shards scattered across the pan. "And the baking soda?!" he shouted, gesturing toward the cabinet that was now dangerously close to the flames.
Grabbing the pan handle, he made a beeline for the sink, tipping the burning oil down the drain. It worked, but not without consequences. Flames licked at his arm, and in reflex, he flung the pan, sending oil splattering across the kitchen. Cupboards were now painted with grease, and large flames continued to dance wildly. I screamed—not realizing until later that the scream had come from me.
With music blaring, the smoke alarm screeching, and fire engines roaring down the street, the fire slowly died down. We managed to extinguish the last embers with a damp towel, standing there in stunned silence. By the time the firemen arrived, my husband had managed to throw on some clothes. Two red trucks pulled up, disgorging firefighters, including one woman, rushing to our aid. They inspected the damage, bandaged his arm, and gave us a few knowing looks as our guests waited outside.
We laughed through dinner that night, though my husband winced occasionally from his burns. These moments, though chaotic, are the ones I cherish most. As I pack away the last dish from our slightly scarred cupboards, memories flood my mind. Of Aliyah, wrapped in her blanket, waiting for a bottle on the tile floor before we decided on hardwood floors. Of countless meals cooked together, some successful, others disastrous. Of Christmas mornings filled with warmth and love.
Now, as I carefully remove the last appliance from the counter, I reflect on the years spent in this home. Watching my little girl grow, learning to cook, celebrating milestones. While I’ll miss this place, I’m excited for the new chapter ahead. After all, life is never boring with us.
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