Have you ever raced into the steamy kitchen as the timer screeched its warning, thrown open the oven door in haste to check for doneness, and reached out a vulnerably flesh-covered hand for whatever molten-hot piece of metal or ceramic lay waiting inside, only to notice half a second too late the oven mitt you intended to slip on staring mockingly from its perch on the counter beside you? Or perhaps that poor little hand, so battered and scraped from life in the kitchen, has bumped into a burner or pot on the stove top and caused you to jump and shake it and curse the gods who invented this evil creature, The Flame.
I know that dance of pain, that shake of the hand in the air in a futile attempt to fling heat from flesh, and I know the cursing, probably better than many a sea-faring fellow. Sometimes I wonder if I'm too careless for the kitchen. Am I the only one who will safely pull a stainless steel skillet from the oven only to fully grip its smoldering handle with a bare hand not five minutes later?
I performed that particular feat just two weeks ago. Brow furrowed at the state of my short ribs swimming in a bubbling bath of syrah and herbed stock, mind intent on success and unaware of danger, my left palm embraced the hot steel, and my fingers encircled it in heedless unison.
I'm not at liberty to repeat the slew of filth that poured from my mouth at this point in the story. You can fill in the blanks with your own profanity.
