Wednesday, May 13, 2009
We ought to celebrate our new oven, I said. So I made a rhubarb crumble, having successfully procured some fine red stalks from the store- the last time I ventured out for rhubarb the store assistant wandered around looking for a colleague called Rupert and ruined all my culinary plans.
Into the oven with the dish, then; and one hour later when the crumble had not metamorphosed into the golden-brown that all recipe books boast of, Spouse and I collectively opted to set the oven to an extremely high temperature for an extremely short time.
We ought to celebrate fresh air, we said, twenty minutes later when smoke billowed out.
"Where are you?" I called out, unable to see Spouse through the swirling grey clouds of cremated crumble.
When I could see the dish I nicknamed it Coal Crumble, for good measure.
An hour later I stood by the living room window listening to an endless shriek of sirens passing by our home.
"Do you smell smoke?" I asked Spouse.
He did, of course, the hint of Coal Crumble being all around us, but there was a new scent on the air.
One of the apartments next door was blazing and half the street's population was standing outside to have a look. Off we went, to celebrate curiosity and coincidence and just in case we needed to evacuate.
I spoke to Mater later; she had, earlier, wisely advised me on the crumble and wished to know how it turned out and if we were enjoying the new appliance.
"It's a great oven," I said, "I think we'll be very happy."
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 1:52 PM