I had another one of my Lucy-esque moments in the kitchen this evening. I was getting ready to stirfry some chicken, and as I put some oil into the extremely hot pan, t'all went KABOOM and burst into flames. I've never really understood that phrase before, 'burst into flames.' Exactly what it sounds like, really.
So being the good little PSA-attending girl that I am, I immediately ran for the baking soda, which we keep in the storage room (as Ceilidh's stinky box is also stored there). Empty shelf; I realize that I used it for cooking (duh!) and it's in the cupboard over the stove. Or in this case, over the flames. I grab for the fire extinguisher on the wall, but somehow 10 000 years of evolution fail me and I can't work it. So finally I reach over the flames and get the box. Several sprinkles of magic powder later and it's all good.
I don't know whether to be upset or not. On one hand, nothing but vegetable oil caught fire (even my dinner escaped burnt-offering status). On the other hand, it's not even a good story. Oddly enough, it's the latter that galls me even more than the loss of my favourite frying pan.
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Finally finished my 23-day unit. I had a breakthrough when I realized that I didn't actually have to write whole lessons tonight. I'm not even close to the wire (i.e. teaching the lesson to actual students) until next Tuesday at the very earliest. Yeah, I'm kind of dumb...only I would get this hung up on a hypothetical lesson plan in an attempt to do less work. This time less work = twice the stress. Bah. Bah to it all.
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3 years ago today: the triumph of hope over experience
