A Close Call...

  I was minding my own business today, or at least I thought I was minding my own business, roasting a poultry product in the oven.    Wait. That isn't right, let me start over:


    I was roasting a chicken the other day in my oven.   It was a nice little Tuesday or Thursday.  I forget which exactly, but it was  a day with a 'T' in it somewhere,  and I had been thinking about a roasted chicken for a few hours before I performed all the steps necessary to make the fantasy become a reality;   I went to the store and bought a plump chicken,  I soaked the thing in my own special blend of exotic herbs and juices,  I ran 60 feet of 10-3 wire from a spanking new 30 AMP circuit breaker I had just bought from Home Depot and subsequently installed in the breaker box,  I used the sharp end of a claw hammer to break a hole through a wall in the kitchen in which to mount the proper stove outlet -   I did all that and more.


   And so it was, only 9 hours after going to the store for a chicken,  I was sliding that puppy in the oven.  In an hour or so the delicious aroma was was everywhere!    Another 15 minutes after THAT, there followed a dense cloud of smoke, which too went everywhere.


    I knew I should have returned to Safeway for a drip pan, I just knew it.   It's just that by the time the oven was working and the bird was ready, I really didn't want to have to bother with another trip to the store, even if they DO have a self-checkout aisle there now.    I fashioned something myself out of tinfoil and an aluminum platter from Sizzler (Alzheimer's be damned!) and put it on a different rack more or less under the chicken, but I guess it wasn't accommodating enough in some respect - size or volume or robustness,  I'll never know it's exact shortcoming(s) as it was lost in the resulting fire.


   Despite being right in the middle of a very delicate operation under the hood of a Citroen,  I had the common sense to investigate where all that smoke was coming from.   I suspected it might have something to do with the freshly-installed stove and/or baking chicken, and as usual,  my estimations were correct.


   Smoke was hemorrhaging at a steady pace from the top of the oven door, and I felt my life actually flash there in front of me for a moment - was my meal going to be ruined?    Maybe one side of the bird could be salvaged?    I just couldn't tell yet.     I stepped cautiously to the oven.   I put my hand on the chrome strip which served as a handle.   I pulled gently, shielding my face with my other hand and a dishtowel from the fireball I expected to leap at me  -   and an impressive ball of smoke rolled lazily out and up to be trapped against the ceiling, shrouding the flashing florescent light, but not much else happened.


   I turned the stove off.    I pulled the chicken out.    It was in fact edible.    Apparently what had happened was that a great deal of greasy juices had been emitted by the bird and spilled into my makeshift drip-catcher.   Some had spilled past my drip-catcher, or it had failed in some way, allowing said liquids to fall onto the actual stove element itself initiating an unrealized burn sequence there at the bottom of the oven.  Angry, evil, dark, smoking fluids reflecting the red glow of the heating element, it must have been quite hellish in there.     Thank the Sweet Lord there wasn't a spark!


   Well, I became far too preoccupied 'testing'  the crispiness of the chicken skin, and 'sampling' a breast portion, and in my feeding frenzy I forgot to clean up or remove the drip pan.   This was about three days ago.


    Flash ahead these last three days - three days of movie-watching, three days of chicken-carcass-creativity, three days of chicken enchiladas, chicken salad sandwiches, finally chicken soup,  three days of a chicken's worst nightmare unfolding here at The Shop.    Well, that chicken must have put a curse on my oven on it's way out, because all hell broke loose in there today.


   I was feeling lazy this afternoon, and so I went to Safeway to buy one of those lasagnas they sell there... or was it a Shephard's Pie?   I forget which.    I don't think it is important to my story anyway.    NO WAIT!  It was funny, because it WAS the lasagna, a ghetto Safeway lasagna with a fancy Latinesque name like : 'Il Cocini Primero'  or 'Lasagna Bravini' or something amusing like that -  pure gibberish - so I was chuckling to myself as I slid it into the oven on the rack above my black and befouled homemade drip pan, and I smugly set the dial to 'Delicious' at 375 degrees before resuming poking around under the hood of a Rover out in the garage.     Twenty minutes later,  savory aromas.   Ten minutes after that, billowing smoke.    Really?   AGAIN?


   I was more confident this time, experienced, jaded even,  and just went right up to the oven door and pulled it open without the protection of my dishtowel.   Fire belched out of the door and into my face, blinding me temporarily.


   Now, I'm an Air Sign, so I can not be bothered with planning for disasters.    Wait.   Maybe I'm a Fire Sign?    Earth Sign?    Well, I'm one of THOSE.    I am pretty sure I'm not a Water Sign, or I wouldn't get so upset when I have to wait in the line at the post office.   Right?     The point is:    I'm an Air Sign and so I don't hang fire extinguishers all over the place like a certain short-but-imposing Jewish friend I have who shall remain nameless in this story.   I am NOT the Safety Guy.    And when a ball of fire jumps out of an oven and burns my eyebrows off, I do not remain calm.   And what of the lasagna?   Would it too remain in an edible state like the poultry before it had done?  Would it persevere?   Would it be crispy on top?


     This is what I was thinking as I slammed the oven door shut and began slapping at my head and face with a used paper bag I found nearby.   It seemed to do the trick putting out the hair fire, but it must have been some powerful medicine that baked chicken had administered in my kitchen three days prior, for even after turning the dial to 'off' and waiting a minute or two, still more black smoke came out the crack at the top of the door, and also began to float up out of the four black cold coils of the stovetop as well.     This thing was living!   Was I done for?


     Well, I am typing this to you now, so you can guess I made it through alright myself.    The lasagna was a total loss, however.     I am still trying to pick up the pieces right now and decide what to do next.  The fact  that this all happened on the Eve of the birth of The Baby Jesus is not lost on me.   I pay attention to the little details! Universal Signals!  You should know this about me.  I am tuned in to the cosmos.  Even so,   I just don't know what to do now about Christmas tomorrow  - what about the children?      I suppose it's back to Safeway for that Shephard's Pie.


      It just goes to show you - No day is too sacred for a grease fire.