Aselin

I started my first fire when I was about five. My mom still brags about her parenting techniques which “encouraged” my sister and I to be self sufficient. The fundamental format of her philosophy is illustrated by those people who teach their kids to swim by throwing them in a lake and walking away. True, more often than not, the flailing gets you to the dock, but it’s rather inefficient and I don’t know any olympic swimmers who started out that way.

Because of her style, my little sister and I developed some less than safe habits. Overly confident in my cooking abilities, I knew I could make myself some toast in our little front loading toaster oven. How hard could it be?

There I was, sitting on the counter in a pink nightgown, my little tummy grumbling. Having ripped open the bread bag and dragged out the butter as soon as the toast was finished I was poised to spread it with a boning knife. Slowly, like some sort of exotic Arabian dance, smoke started to ribbon out the sides of the toaster. Likely I had the setting on broil, but what five year old knows what broil is? What five year old is allowed to reach the sharp knives?

Curious, I didn’t know the smoke wasn’t a byproduct of grown-up cooking. Watching through the little window made opaque by the residue of former meals, I waited for the ‘ding.’ Suddenly, the inside of the toaster flashed and my piece of bread exploded in flames.

Immediately knowing I was in trouble I did what every responsible five year old does: I ran away. Knife and all. Hiding in the dining room with the boning knife as a culinary refugee I started to hyperventilate. After a moment, I peered around the door into the kitchen to see the toaster engulfed in flames. Of course, I hid even deeper.

The smoke alarms finally alerted the responsible people in the house. As my mother came running into the kitchen she handled the fire somehow. I was nowhere to be seen, and was planning on staying that way.

Shortly I learned that I was about as good of a hider as I was a cook, and my mother rooted me out. As her hysterical lecture droned on I held fast to my story: “I did not start the fire.”

Now, maybe the rest of you have always been more evolved than me, but I suspect there are a few of you who also have tried to cover your tracks. It’s pretty innate in me. More so than I would like to admit. When I screw up I don’t want to be found out, yet I’m incredibly bad about covering my tracks. I still live the adult version of the kid in a pink nightgown hiding behind a chair clutching a knife.

Recently I was asked to take dinner to a new mother and her family. I called, made arrangements for the drop off, planned a menu...I was happy to do it, but had a busy day. At one in the morning I bolted upright in bed as I realized that I had completely forgotten to take the dinner. The poor little family was probably huddled near their front door starving to death.

Sadly, my brain spent the first two panicked hours of my insomnia trying to come up with a story that would justify my ineptitude. The varied stories involved severe head trauma, rabies infection and loose bats, but they seemed rather implausible. It was the little girl in the pink nightgown all over again.

While sleep evaded me, reason did not. There was only one honorable way to put out this fire. I waited until it was an appropriate time to call, and explained that I was a complete moron. Of course they were gracious, but there was no assuaging my humiliation. Not until I delivered dinner later that night did the pit in my stomach relax.

Ideally I would like to cease committing emotional arson, but since that is unlikely I need to continue to practice ‘fessing up. Because the reality is, if you just put the knife down and come out from behind the chair before you’re asked, the punishments are generally much lighter.