“Fire! Fire! AAAAUUUGGGHHH!” I yelled, startled by the intimidating WHOOO-OOSSHHH behind my back as I sliced tomatoes, segmented avocados, and shredded lettuce in preparation for taco night.
My son came running into the kitchen yelling, “What?! What?!” I was hopping around on one leg, arms akimbo, trying to focus on the best course of action when confronted with a three-foot spire of flame coming from the top of my stove.
“Water! Where’s water?” he yelled, running to the sink. My brain went into hyperdrive, and I at least summoned the presence of mind to remember that water is NOT the answer to a grease fire.
“NO! NO!” I shrieked, “NOT WATER! YOU GOTTA SMOTHER A GREASE FIRE!” By this time, I’d decided one of my raggedy, clean-up towels I kept stacked in the laundry room was the best bet. So I hopped the five steps to the laundry room, grabbed the most bedraggled one, and plunked it on the fire. Little flames sprouted from underneath the edges, valiantly clinging to life. I flapped the towel edges hesitantly, unwilling to pick up the pan until, um, it didn’t actually contain a FIRE. After a few seconds, the flames did not re-appear, so I grabbed the pan and the towel and put it on the deck. Deep sigh of relief. Crisis averted. The pan is history, the towel is in the trash, but at least I don’t need a new kitchen.
My son was not sure whether he should be perplexed, relieved, or accusatory, and said, “What were you DOING?” I think he chose accusatory. I was too flattened by overly-stimulated adrenal glands to be insulted, and muttered a reply.
I’d put oil in the pan I was going to use to cook the hamburger to heat up on my (cursed) electric stove, and as we all know, electric stoves take for-ev-er to heat up, and so I guess I kind of forgot about the pan behind me on the stove as I was slicing and dicing.
Okay, okay, so I used to be able to multi-task with all the speed and finesse of a well-oiled machine. It is hard to admit one’s physical and intellectual capacities might be a teensy bit rusty due to (cough) aging.
At a certain point, women can’t blame this stuff on menopause anymore.
So my multi-tasking needs to be re-evaluated. A little tweaking, that’s all. Only do two or three things at the same time instead of seven or eight. Minor adjustment.
I guess it’s time to stop and smell the roses instead of race to blow the fuses. (How’s that for an absolutely ridiculous analogy?) The point is, I need to slow down. There is no need to do so many things at once. Why am I rushing? It’s not like there’s a fire to put out somewhere!