Jun 13, 2013
Horror Stories from the Kitchen
One of the Little Rock TV stations asked its viewers to share horror stories from the kitchen. I thought I would share a few - some are just funny. Well, to me anyway.
I used the image above, found online, because my brother once set our toaster on fire with Pop-Tarts. He loaded them in, pushed down the handle, and in a few minutes... POOF. We had a fire.
When Shan and I first got married, we had friends over for tacos. We put the shells in the oven to warm. They caught the oven on fire. The first thing I did? I ran to the front door of the apartment and flung it open. Why? I'm still not sure. I think I was trying to make an escape route for the smoke.
I was up late one night when my brother comes walking through the living room. He is simply repeating the phrase, "I want some cookies." He was sleep-walking. He went into the kitchen, grabbed a box of Cookie-Crisp cereal and proceeded to eat the entire box while sitting on the kitchen floor. When he finished, he put the box back in the cabinet and went to bed. He had no recollection the next morning.
Once, Tyler put a bag of microwave popcorn in upside down. After a few minutes, we had a charred brick inside. Well, it was a charred brick after we put the fire out!
I once put celery in the garbage disposal. Once. After I had to clean out the mess, I never did THAT again!
This story is a kitchen story because I was sitting in the kitchen at the time. When Shan and I were first dating, I was up late one night talking to her on the phone. My mind wanders when I am on the phone, so I absent-mindedly opened one of the kitchen drawers and fumbled around for something to play with. I found an old garage door opener. It had three buttons. As Shan and I talked, I pressed the buttons in ascending order then descending then ascending and so on. I would have kept doing that too, except that my Dad suddenly burst out of my parents' bedroom, buck naked, and came charging into the hallway and down the stairs. I had no idea what was going on. A few minutes later, he charged back up the stairs and stood before me, angrier than I had seen him in a long time. He ripped the remote out of my hand, yelling, "What in the HELL are you doing with this!?" I told him, "Nothing. Just pushing the buttons." Turns out, the "old" remote still worked. The garage door was under my parents' bedroom. So, as I pushed the various buttons, the door would raise, stop, lower... raise, stop, lower. Over and over and over. There are very few things as shocking as seeing one's parent ticked off and naked holding a garage door opener.