Last night I set the stove on fire while making dinner. I’d like to be able to say that it was the first time ever, but sadly, the best I can do is to say it was the first time in this house. I am not a good cook.

The kids were pretty freaked out at the foot-high flames coming from their dinner. I must admit I was a wee bit scared myself. I grabbed the pot and popped it in the sink, where I ran cold water over the flames. At the time I wasn’t sure it was going to turn out to be a good idea — it was an oil-based fire, and something in the back of my head was saying, “Water, bad. Salt…or maybe it’s baking soda…or is it flour? Anyway, one of those…Good.”

That same little voice was also suggesting that a) we get a fire extinguisher for the kitchen and b) I learn how to use it. For next time. And I’d like to say that there probably won’t be a next time. But I am really not a good cook.

Anyway, the water worked, after about a minute, and a huge amount of very stinky smoke was created. One of my best pots is besmirched, but possibly still usable with a lot of scrubbing. Although I think I heard it request, in a very tiny voice, for spaghetti-only duty for a while, to get over the trauma.

The smoke detector went off, but luckily there was little to no reaction from the neighbours. That’s because it goes off every single time I make oven fries, so they’re pretty used to hearing it by now. This time, it didn’t even bother to go off until I’d put out the fire. You know, there’s fashionably late, and then there’s missing the party altogether.

I think I’ll make sandwiches for dinner tonight. Just to be on the safe side.