Perhaps you’re wondering why I christened this blog “Drunken Desires and Kitchen Fires.”  Well … the title is representative of the the tiny catastrophes that comprise my life.  I think it would be fair to ease into this whole thing, so let’s begin with the kitchen fire, shall we? 

I’ve done stupid things.  I’m human (and I’m assuming you’re human as well, in which case you’ve also done stupid things, so you should be able to understand).  Among one of the more ridiculous things that I’ve been a part of has been a morning attempt at donut-making.  That’s correct… donut-making — not donut-purchasing like any other wise college lady might elect to do.  To be fair, this was not entirely my idea.  Nonetheless, it happened.

My friend Belvedere  was visiting and so my lovely roommate Alma and I decided that it would be a wonderful treat to make donuts.  And after our drunken stir-fry success from the prior evening, we figured we domestically unstoppable.  So, we prepared the dough, poured the oil into the pot, and turned on the stove.  We were antsy to get this donut-show on the road, but the oil was taking a while to heat up.  To speed up the process, we covered the pot with a lid and let the oil simmer. (If you’ve ever cooked before, you’ll see where this is headed.  If not, you’ll learn a valuable lesson without endangering your own life.)  After ample time had passed, we removed the cover and bared witness to a glorious cloud of steam rising from the pot … which subsequently erupted into flames.  Thinking quickly, Alma turned off the stove and removed the flaming pot of oil from the burner.  But one thing remained … a fiery pot of oil engulfed in flames shooting upward towards our kitchen ceiling with no sign of extinguishing.

Congratulations residents and guests of #564: You’ve started your very own grease fire!  So there Alma was in the kitchen wielding a flaming pot trying to enlist our help in putting out the fire.  But as she stood there, Belvedere, our roommate Kelly (who had just entered the kitchen only find a crisis in process), and I slowly begin to back away, offering Alma general suggestions (but mostly trying to avoid the situation in the hopes that it would cease to be). 

“Yeah, just hold the pot so it doesn’t set the cupboards on fire.” 
“It’ll probably just go out.”
“Don’t put water on it!”
“Try blowing it again.”
“Don’t put water on it!”
“Should we put something on it?”
“Don’t put water on it!”

All the while Alma stands in the kitchen screaming “WHAT DO I DO?”  Obviously this thing was not going out, so Kelly went to go google “putting out grease fires.”  In the meantime, we had heard somewhere that putting baking soda on a grease fire can help to curb the flames, so Alma reached for the nearby box and tossed a handful into the pot.  Unfortunately in the confusion, she grabbed the sugar which, upon making contact with the fire, cause the flames to shoot upwards within inches of our ceiling.  Now, since I’ve been a child, I’ve had an unreasonable fear of fires, lightning, and spiders.  And while the chances from dying as result of an encounter with one of these things are relatively low, I think it’s safe to say that given my lot in life, if someone was going to die … it would be me (either that, or I would suffer some strange cruel fate and live to tell the tale just to give the gods a good hearty laugh).  But I digress.  The moment I saw that handful of sugar hit the fire, I had visions of our entire apartment (and possibly the neighboring homes) burning to the ground.  In my head I began to plan how we were going to pay for the damage and where we were going to live and what I was going to take with me as I rushed for dear life out of the dwelling.  Thank god my worst-cast-scenario thoughts were quickly interrupted by Kelly, who started shouting out her googled results from the other room.

“This website says put a cover on it, but not glass - that will shatter.  It also says to call 911 and get out.”


Call 911 and get out?  This had to be a joke.  Only people who might die have to call 911.  Well, first thing was first.  We set the pot on the stove and reached for a baking sheet to put over the pot, since that was the only non glass cover we could find … Hey!  Have you ever seen a baking sheet catch on fire?  I have.  With two of our cookware items now engulfed in flames in the middle of our kitchen, I knew it was time to call 911.  Kelly dialed the number and handed the phone to me. (Oh yeah… she “doesn’t like to talk on the phone” so I was the one who would have call.  You think she might make an exception for a growing grease fire in our kitchen, but alas, that was not the case.)

When the emergency operator answered the phone, I anxiously and  haphazardly described the situation.  He asked for the necessary location information, told me to remain calm (Oh!  Thank you emergency man for your wise words.  I hadn’t thought of that!), and instructed us to exit the building and wait for the firemen who were now en route to our home.  So  that’s what we did.  Kelly and I headed outside to wait for the firemen, while Alma and Belvedere stayed in the kitchen with our little grease fire … not that they would be able to do anything if matters got worse.  Luckily, our home is within eight blocks of the fire-station and in less than a minute we heard the sirens blaring towards our street.

As Kelly and I stood there on the street, we witnessed one fire truck turn down our street, then another,  then another.  And then one more for good measure.  Yes, you counted correctly - four fire engines, each stocked with at least ten ready and able firepeople.  As the first one arrived, the men (and one well-built lady) jumped out of the trucked fully-suited and fire clad, ready to put out this bitch of a fire.  They put on their coats and their hats and masks.  They grabbed their extinguishing tanks and their saws; their pickaxes and whatever other type of fire gear you can think of.  Any tools that had rested peacefully at the station earlier that morning were now being whipped out of a truck and rushed into our home.  And let me tell you, this fiasco did not go unnoticed by our neighbors, let alone our landlord …

Back inside the house, seven firemen proceeded to tackle the fire.  Upon removing the flaming baking sheet from the top of the pot, the grease fire shot up into the air until it was doused with chemicals by the firemen and taken out of the house. 

Well, that was it.  Our special little creation was put out.  And after taking care of the emergency at hand, the firemen felt it quite necessary to joke about out cooking skills.

“You ladies making pancakes?”
“You should have just bought donuts.”

Thank you sirs.  We’ll take note.  Needless to say, I will never try to make donuts again.

Hello.  My name is Barbara (no, it’s not… but that is what I call my hair) and my life is a joke … and a blessing (which I mean in a completely secular sense).  I am the product of two very strange adults (I use that term loosely) and I love life, despite my pseudo-pessimism.  (I also love parentheses; they clarify my intended meanings, allow me to digress from my thoughts, and make snide side comments.)  I am not entirely sure for what purpose I will use this “Tumblr,” but I do feel like it may be a good forum in which to record my unfortunate and humorous-since-I-didn’t-die experiences.  Maybe not.  But I might as well give it a try … Although I did try twitter and found it too restrictive as I was unable to condense my babble down to 140 characters.  Perhaps I shall find success here?

Oh yeah - regarding my URL - I take my pants off.  A lot.  And not in a cute, flirty, sexual way.  It’s more comparable to the way in which a toddler takes off his pants, runs around, and then passes out from being tired (but I pass out because I’ve had six too many alcoholic beverages).