I invited a friend over for Sunday dinner the other day, which meant that after we got home from church, we went into full company mode. My 6 year old was ordered to clean the playroom, my husband was relegated to the grill to smoke the salmon (yes, it was a good as it sounds), and I busied myself with getting the brownies ready.
We’re not really a dessert family. I wish I could say it’s because I’m righteous and healthy and want to keep my arteries unclogged and my figure trim, but the bottom line is that I’m just that lazy. People who do dessert right amaze me. So I was feeling pretty excited that I was pulling off some dessert, even if it was something as simple as brownies from a box.
I had also, on this particular day, pulled it together domestically pretty well. I had made homemade rolls before church, the house was picked up and clean, and the kids weren’t naked and smeared in sticky stuff. I had planned dinner so all the side dishes would be ready just before 6pm, which is when our friend and her children were to arrive. It was going to be a great dinner extravaganza.
Their aroma filling the kitchen with chocolaty goodness, I pulled the brownies out as the buzzer dinged, just 5 minutes before 6. I put them down on the stove, but the stove was hot, so I moved them. I put them on my counter top, and my toddler reached for them. I had visions of her pulling down a scalding hot glass pan of brownies on her fair little head, so I moved them again, to a different countertop.
There was a crack, like ice breaking, and suddenly, there was glass all over the place. Sharp, nearly invisible splinters of death went everywhere. The brownies had exploded.
The doorbell rang. Our company had arrived. Right on time.
I sent my son to stall, and then furiously tried to clean up. But how does one clean up an shattered 9×13 pan full of hot brownies? I met my friend as she came into the kitchen, and tried to laugh it off.
“We’ve, um, had a bit of an incident. My brownies exploded. Um, ha, ha! Oh, hey, um, yeah, you should probably keep your toddler out of the kitchen for the moment. Ha ha!”
How had it happened, we all wondered. The only thing we can come up with is that the pan was hot, and the granite countertop I put the pan on was cool, and glass can’t handle that drastic of a change in temperature. So, it exploded in protest.
I cleaned it up as best as could, although I kept finding interestingly shaped shards of glass hiding in the most puzzling places over the next few days.
Is there a metaphor for life buried in this story? I’d like to think so, because if not, it just means that I’m kinda stupid.
Please share your own homemaking disasters, so I don’t feel like such a chump. And if you can come up with a good life lesson about the shattered brownies, I’d like that too. But only if it’s not too depressing, or doesn’t make me look really lame.
I have another box of brownie mix, but I must admit, I’m hesistant to break it out. What if it goes awry again? What if something else goes wrong? What if this incident has proved, once and for all, that I can’t be trusted with baked goods?
I guess I’ll just have to stick with Oreos from now on.