When I arrived home from school that day, I didn't think I would've been held over the chasm of death by my innocent desire to eat. I was in that particular mood where I could and would eat anything that had the misfortune of crossing into my field of vision. I stepped through the front door of my empty house and immediately knew what my brain desired: French fries. I threw my backpack off my shoulders and strutted into my kitchen.
Entering my kitchen, I bent down to the storage area below my microwave. In a wicker basket laid potatoes that were unusually small and pale – similar to me, except I am not round, nor am I a potato. I grabbed several of the potatoes and set them on the granite countertop. Once the potatoes rested gently on the counter, I retrieved a floral cutting board from the cupboard. Before beginning the treacherous process of cutting the starchy vegetables, I took a moment to process and ponder my life.
Suddenly, feelings of hunger mixed with feelings of sadness and exhaustion overwhelmed me. I realized how much work lay ahead of me before I'd be able to eat the mutilated, yet strangely rectangular, potatoes. A single tear slid past my tear duct as I willed myself to pick up the sharpened knife to my left. Carefully and meticulously, I pressed the knife through the fleshy, unpeeled potato, counting all of my fingers in the process. Soon, the potatoes I had chosen from the bunch lay disassembled in front of me. After marveling at the beauty of the naked, raw potatoes, I poured oil into a pan onto the stove. I turned the gas burner up to the highest setting. In this moment, I made a grave miscalculation.
I sat idle by the stove, waiting for the oil to boil when in fact oil does not. The warning bells inside my head should have been activated when the not-boiling oil smoked enough to cause the smoke alarms to whine obnoxiously; however, my hunger caused a temporary ignorance.
A few dozen minutes passed, and I grew frustrated and impatient. Although the oil still did not boil, I dumped the French fries into the steaming pan. Instantaneously, the once soft fries turned black when added to the oil. An unnecessary mushroom-shaped cloud of dusty black smoke filled the kitchen, mocking my instinctual salacity for food. I reached a new level of panic, never before experienced until this moment in time. I quickly grabbed the pan with some potholders and rushed it to the sink.
Not knowing of any other avenue to take, I turned on the faucet. For a reason beyond my level of comprehension, the oil started to explode. The noise level nearly shattered my eardrums, a particularly impressive feat considering I have the approximate hearing of a sweet old woman that spends her time knitting in a stale-smelling nursing home.
Oil from the pan spewed in every which way. Before I had time to process what was happening, my body jolted itself into my dining room. I watched in awe and shock and fear as oil and smoke continued to disperse themselves throughout my kitchen.
Knowing that any member of my family could arrive home any minute, I grabbed the pan and ran outside. I speed walked to the far side of my above ground pool. Once secure in my location, I dumped the contents of the pan next to the filter of the pool. After concealing most of the evidence of my crime, I ran back inside to the (not so) safety of my kitchen.
It is no surprise to say that now I seldom cook anything more complicated than cereal when I am home alone.
