I hate it when I'm cooking eggs, how it sometimes smells like burnt hair.
I once caught my hair on fire, in my college dorm room. I had lit several candles in an effort to
create a romantic atmosphere. As I leaned over a candle to pick something up, my long braid fell over my shoulder and into the candle flame. Remarkably I didn't notice this. Milliseconds later I smelled burnt hair. Hmm, I thought, I wonder why it smells like burning hair? Oh! Panic as I slap my hair between the palms of my hands. Charred hair remnants littered my bedspread. So romantic.
Once I tried another romantic effect - tossing a scarf over a lamp to give the room a soft rosy glow. Again with the stench. Scorched scarf is not a romantic fragrance.
And speaking of scorched, I once put eggs in a pot of water to boil, then yawned and lay down for a nap. Did I mention I am not a good cook? When I woke up, there was this really odd smell in the house - burning metal, and something else, uh, scorched? Burnt saucepan and blackened popped eggs. You won't find that in your Betty Crocker Cookbook. Now, whenever I boil eggs, my husband leans over the pot and says, "Pop Eggs?"
One Christmas Eve I was frying tortillas to make taco shells and the oil in the pan caught on fire. I raced outside and threw the pan in the snow. I didn't fry tortillas for about ten years after that. But I finally got tired of preformed tasteless taco shells and began frying my own again. My husband calls them "Tacos Flambe."
My church decided to have a bonfire in a pasture. Beautiful harvest moon night, clear cold air, glittering stars, picture-perfect pasture with tall grass, a creek, a few gnarled oak trees. And a humongous pile of firewood, enough to torch about 20 heretics. And that was on my mind, as we made a brave attempt to roast hot dogs. The fire was so hot, so intense, we had to wear jackets, gloves, hats, and lay face down on the cool grass, completely stretched out, arms extended with the longest roasting sticks we could find. Even then we could barely stand the heat long enough to get one end of a wienie roasted. My heart went out to Joan of Arc. Later we asked one of our group to lead us in a sing-along. She started singing All God's Creatures, but slipped in a Freudian way and sang, "All God's creatures got a place in the fire..." and stopped suddenly with her hand over her mouth. I couldn't resist, and continued, "some scream low and some scream higher!" And then immediately sobered, thinking of all those poor people burned at the stake.
I don't really have any good ending to this post. This was just a few random thoughts on a random day, and I have no idea what made me think of these things. Oh yeah, I was cooking eggs.
I once caught my hair on fire, in my college dorm room. I had lit several candles in an effort to
create a romantic atmosphere. As I leaned over a candle to pick something up, my long braid fell over my shoulder and into the candle flame. Remarkably I didn't notice this. Milliseconds later I smelled burnt hair. Hmm, I thought, I wonder why it smells like burning hair? Oh! Panic as I slap my hair between the palms of my hands. Charred hair remnants littered my bedspread. So romantic.
Once I tried another romantic effect - tossing a scarf over a lamp to give the room a soft rosy glow. Again with the stench. Scorched scarf is not a romantic fragrance.
And speaking of scorched, I once put eggs in a pot of water to boil, then yawned and lay down for a nap. Did I mention I am not a good cook? When I woke up, there was this really odd smell in the house - burning metal, and something else, uh, scorched? Burnt saucepan and blackened popped eggs. You won't find that in your Betty Crocker Cookbook. Now, whenever I boil eggs, my husband leans over the pot and says, "Pop Eggs?"
One Christmas Eve I was frying tortillas to make taco shells and the oil in the pan caught on fire. I raced outside and threw the pan in the snow. I didn't fry tortillas for about ten years after that. But I finally got tired of preformed tasteless taco shells and began frying my own again. My husband calls them "Tacos Flambe."
My church decided to have a bonfire in a pasture. Beautiful harvest moon night, clear cold air, glittering stars, picture-perfect pasture with tall grass, a creek, a few gnarled oak trees. And a humongous pile of firewood, enough to torch about 20 heretics. And that was on my mind, as we made a brave attempt to roast hot dogs. The fire was so hot, so intense, we had to wear jackets, gloves, hats, and lay face down on the cool grass, completely stretched out, arms extended with the longest roasting sticks we could find. Even then we could barely stand the heat long enough to get one end of a wienie roasted. My heart went out to Joan of Arc. Later we asked one of our group to lead us in a sing-along. She started singing All God's Creatures, but slipped in a Freudian way and sang, "All God's creatures got a place in the fire..." and stopped suddenly with her hand over her mouth. I couldn't resist, and continued, "some scream low and some scream higher!" And then immediately sobered, thinking of all those poor people burned at the stake.
I don't really have any good ending to this post. This was just a few random thoughts on a random day, and I have no idea what made me think of these things. Oh yeah, I was cooking eggs.
