I live in a studio apartment in New York City. For those people out there who are not familiar with the average New York City studio apartment, let me enlighten you: “small” does not even begin to describe it. Basically, my kitchen would fit inside a linen closet—with plenty of room to spare. Given that, it’s probably no surprise that my “cooking” consists mostly of popping the leftovers of yesterday’s Chinese take-out into the microwave.
However, a few months after I moved in here, I decided to throw a little dinner party. Nothing fancy, mind you. I was going to invite a few close friends over. And, I was going to cook.
It wasn’t as if I’d never cooked before. In fact, when I lived in Los Angeles—where accommodations are more spacious and kitchens are generally bigger than the kiddie versions made by Fisher Price—I used to cook all the time. And even in this tiny studio, I had cooked eggs and…well, I’m sure I’d at least cooked eggs. But up until that point, I had never actually used the oven.
As the big night approached, I found this great Mediterranean chicken recipe. I headed to the market with my shopping list, and instead of reaching for the precooked chicken, I bought a fresh one. As I carried my bags home, I couldn’t help thinking that Martha Stewart had nothing on me.
Then the big night arrived. The veggies were cut, and the spinach dip was made. The salad was tossed, all ready to be dressed. The chicken was marinating. With everything under control, I carefully preheated the oven to the recommended temperature and went to select some dinner music from my CD collection.
As I was deciding between Diana Krall and Harry Connick, Jr., I started to smell something. It smelled like something was burning. I rushed out to the kitchen, confused. What was going on? The chicken was still in the fridge absorbing flavor. There was nothing in the oven…was there?
I flung open the oven door and discovered that there was, indeed, something in there—and now, it was in flames. Sure, everybody knows that you’re supposed to have a fire extinguisher or baking soda or something near the stove for just this kind of emergency. But what can I say? Until this dinner party, I barely even had groceries. I had to improvise—fast. So I shouted “Omigod!” a lot, danced around, and beat the flames into submission with a frying pan.
Actually, that worked pretty well. And once the crisis was over, I finally realized what had caught on fire: it was the manual that described how to use the oven properly. As I picked up the charred remains of the instruction guide and dropped them in the trash, I couldn’t help wondering if its instructions had included: “Remove manual before turning on oven.”
For the record, the dinner party was a success. We ordered out for Chinese.
