I set my recipe book on fire this evening.
I was not cooking at the time...well, kind of. Charon, on her way home from a gig, stopped by for a cup of tea. I switched on the burner, and withdrew to the eating part of the kitchen (by which I mean 'the storing promotional dvds, magic props and stuff to take to the Goodwill part of the kitchen' - it just looks like we should be eating there because it has a highchair in it, and, somewhere under the pile, alledgedly a table). We're chatting away about her gig (a wedding reception) and My Adorable Child and this and that and eventually we begin to wonder why the room seems to be COMPLETELY FILLED WITH THICK GREY SMOKE.
She heroically picks up the journal, and tosses it into the sink, dousing the flaming cover but, unbelievably, not messing up any of the hand-written recipes.
I, meanwhile, shout for the World's Best Husband to come out and help us open windows while I unhook the smoke detector.
Actual transcript of conversation:
me: Honey! We've had a little fire! Come out to the kitchen and help us open windows! I'll unhook the smoke detector!
World Best: (no response at all.)
Me: Honey! Fire! Fans! Windows!
World Best: (no response at all.) (He's watching Masterpiece Theatre. The Amazing Mrs. Pritchard. I might not have responded either.)
Me: Fine, we'll just do it.
(Another minute or so passes.)
World's Best: (running into the kitchen.) Smoke! The house is filled with smoke! Open a window, for heaven's sake!
And my deepest regret is that this happened during October. Because you can bet I'll be dyin' for this kind of material during NaBloPoMo.