Although it's a little late for breakfast, The Boy is currently frying bacon and cooking a frozen pizza in the oven; one for breakfast, one for lunch, although it seems as if we might have them simultaneously.
Wait, did I say cooking a frozen pizza? I'm sorry, that's incorrect. He was cooking a frozen pizza.
He had made another one two nights ago, but when he oh-so-cavalierly tossed it into the oven cheese fell every which way, including on the bottom of the oven. Do you see where this is going yet?
That pizza came out fine and without incident, which is good because we were a couple beers in at that point. This time though, the scattered cheese that he must have forgotten about caught fire. From my spot on the couch I looked up to see The Boy pulling open the oven where there was one foot-tall column of flame and toss a glass full of water on it.
I went to put clothes on so I could look cute for when the firemen get here to put out our house, because I obviously need a man who is a little better with the oven.
I had no idea how The Boy remained so calm about the whole affair, so I asked him. His response? "I just didn't want you to find out the oven was on fire."
And then he scraped the cooled down oven free of cheese with an ice scraper made for car windows. I love this man.
...
Oh lord, he's about to try again. Wish us luck!
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