Ovens are meant to contain fires, I learned (more or less): a fact I did not know prior to this event, though one I certainly will not forget. I was young, though older than I would like to admit, and my cooking skills were sub-par in comparison to what they have developed into. Parchment paper, I now know, is something that should be used sparingly, not in abundance. Unfortunately, I did not understand this, and cut quite a large square that hung limply from the edges of the metal pan, dangling loosely above the heating element inside of the oven. This element, as of now, was aglow with a crimson hue. I closed the oven, then began the wait for my pastries.

For a little while, I stood around, waiting for my food to finish, as my parents do not want me to leave the kitchen when something is cooking, as paying no attention can result in a fire. It would seem that paying attention can result in one as well, as I saw a peculiar orange glow emanating from the glass of the oven. At his point, I was rather panicked, and opened the little door to see what the glow was; it was a blazing fire. For a minute,  I pondered what I might do, going over the options and searching for the fire extinguisher. After deciding that filling the oven with white foam was likely not the most viable option, I chose to go ask my parents what to do.

So, leaving the oven door open, fire still blazing, I strode upstairs to my parents’ bedroom door. My knock was one devoid of panic, one that certainly should have been louder, and one that my father did not seem to read as a precursor to my telling of the dire situation downstairs. That would be why he nonchalantly told the person on the other end of his phone call to hold on a minute while he went to answer the door, crossing the room at a leisurely stroll. Upon opening his door, witnessing me standing there, my face rather calm, he likely did not expect to hear the words that came out of my mouth.

“There’s a fire in the oven.”

His eyes widened and he ran downstairs, apologizing profusely to his phone, explaining that his son had set the oven ablaze. I followed, and found him standing over the smoking appliance, examining the situation. There was a blackened mass of paper and embers in the mouth of the oven, the edges of the parchment paper still aglow with flickers of orange. The three little pastries sat within this mountain of scorched paper, all painted with ash, the dough burned beyond recognition and the insides strewn across the tray like entrails.

He made me eat them anyway.

Image: https://thumbs.gfycat.com/DimwittedAlarmedAnkole-small.gif