While you're frying up some eggs and bacon, we're cooking up something else: a way to celebrate today's food holiday.
Don't cry over spilled milk - June 13 is Kitchen Klutzes of America Day!
We’ve all done it: used salt instead of sugar, turned the mixer on high after carefully sifting in 3 cups of flour, cut ourselves on the can opener*. Let’s face it, no one is perfect and everyone has a bad day in the kitchen.
Even though you might be a kitchen klutz, at least you’re in the kitchen, and in theory, learning from practice.
Whether you’ve burnt yourself on the cookie sheet fresh out of the oven or forgot to grease your loaf pan**, enjoy a day dedicated just to you. And maybe stock up on bandages and a fire extinguisher while you're at it.
Share your klutziest moments in the comments below. We stand in solidarity with our charred spatulas raised.
**Yep, that too.
There are too many to mention, but here are just a few:
• I've had two ovens explode on me.
• I once forgot to put noodles in a lasagna.
• I sort of caught my cousin's apartment on fire the day she graduated from veterinary school.
Some of my antics have been made into comics for posterity... http://www.casaweenie.com/kitchen-klutzes-of-america-day/
I was baking scones for a brunch in my super tiny kitchen. It was actually the front hallway of a very small converted garage apartment. I took the scones on the baking sheet out of the oven, balaced it precariously on the stove, and bent back over to close the oven door, hitting the corner of the baking sheet with my backside. I jumped slightly from the pain and it landed again on my backside, giving me a very unusual burn scar. It kind of looked like half of the CBS logo.
I think this may be unique. I engage in what my husband calls "cardio-kick-cooking", a frantic and sometimes painful effort to get dinner on the table. One hot summer day I was using the broiler, I took it out of the oven and sat it down on the counter. In the same "fluid" motion I tucked the potholder from my right hand under my left arm, I wanted to pick up a knife. The ember from the old potholder burned my armpit. Sitting at dinner my family wanted to know why I had a cold towel under my arm. When I told them "I burned my armpit cooking" there was stunned silence followed by a suggestion that we eat out.
Sophomore year in college, I was hanging out at my friend Caleb’s Ludlow apartment watching badly dubbed Japanese films and decided I wanted to make donut holes. We bought peanut oil and biscuit dough in a can, sugar and cinnamon, and I was all set to make donut holes, just like I watched my mom do when I was a kid.
I knew nothing about cooking with oil, smoking points, or where the lid to the pot we were using was. These proved to be rather important details.
After heating the oil to a point where I thought I saw “steam” coming off of the oil, I deemed it hot enough to put the biscuit dough into the pot. I took several small pieces, lowered them carefully in, and…ignition. They instantly caught on fire. The pot of oil followed suit, and thick black smoke began filling the kitchen, quickly moving to the rest of the efficiency. Without the lid to the pot, and with the impressive heat the pot was generating, we were unable to get close enough to smother the flames. Through my panic, I realized that we were going to have to do something I had never done before.
We were going to have to call the fire department.
I told Caleb to call the fire department and give them his address. Staring numbly at the potted inferno in the kitchen, he replied. "O.K. What's the number?"
"911! Did I really just have to tell you that?"
The fire department is right down the street on Ludlow. They were fast, and boy were they enthusiastic. Somehow, though, in a game of telephone, a pot of oil on fire had been translated into an entire stove on fire. The firefighters sprinted up the stairs. The leader of the group grabbed the scalding hot pot, smothered the fire with another lid, and threw the lidded pot of hot oil out the open kitchen window, into the parking lot below, an action that still puzzles me to this day.
He turned around and began hooking up a fan to blow out the smoke that was lingering in the apartment. As he was working, another firefighter charged up the stairs, hose in tow, ready to put out the stove that was supposedly about to catch the entire building on fire.
“Nah, man.” Said the first firefighter, waving him off, looking a little annoyed. I watched the firefighter with the hose start dejectedly winding the hose back up to take to the truck. He looked a little disappointed. I was never invited back to Caleb’s apartment after that.
Laura, your story had me in stitches.
I did something similar once. I put a container of soup into the microwave and forgot that I had set the power to maximum. Then I went and sat on the couch. Five minutes later, the entire house was filled with thick smoke and the smell of burning. It took ages to air the house out.
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