I definitely started the fire(s). But we both like to leave the oven on.

Tucker and I have been married a little over 6 months and for some reason, we’re both struggling with keeping our home from burning down.

It all started with this weird obsession I’ve developed of wanting to feed my husband. Like I said “I do,” and a switch flipped and now feeding Tucker is the main focus of my days or something. I meal-plan on Saturday afternoons, meal-shop on Saturday evenings, meal-prep on Sunday evenings, and cook most nights of the week. I make him breakfast sandwiches (he usually eats them for lunch) and try to have a snack available for him when he gets home. I try to start cooking dinner the second I get home, a habit that’s actually been very rewarding in its own small way.

The silliest part of this little obsession is that I’m not the best cook. My family life growing up was fairly busy, and though my mom taught me some great staple meals, I’m not as equipped as I wish I was, especially when cooking for a good southern boy like Tucker. He’s into southern homestyle and English countryside meals - not exactly my forte. Yet.

Tucker’s grandmother, Kiki, got me a White Lily Cookbook for Christmas last year, full of southern recipes made with White Lily products. I’ve learned I’m terrible at making biscuits, but that’s a different story.

Cut to a long process of building my confidence in the kitchen and Tucker being very encouraging and patient with me. Then…I started to get a bit cocky, actually. I did pretty well my first time making Shepherd’s Pie from scratch (and it’s only gotten better from there - we had it just a few days ago and it was the best one yet.) I always nail it when I make quesadillas. My crockpot chicken taco soup is delicious. I was doing pretty well.

In my pride, I decided to try homemade fried chicken, using the White Lily Cookbook and products.

I was so impressed with myself for even daring to try this dish. I’d gotten home from a fairly rough day at work, but I was still eager to make Tucker fried chicken and impress the crap out of him with my skills. I even had fantasies of making the dish again for all his siblings and for our friends and hearing praise from all angles.

In case you’ve forgotten the first sentence of this blog, I started a fire instead. So much for all the praise I was so ready for.

I had started cooking right away, eager to get to that praise part, especially after a bad work day. Tucker had gone to take a shower after his long day and I began heating up oil in one of our cast iron pans. I turned the oven up as high as it would go, thinking the oil should probably be pretty hot to cook chicken all the way through, right?

As the oil heated up, I prepped the breading and chicken, slicing the breasts into fingers and mixing spices. I looked up and realized it had gotten pretty smoky in our small kitchen. The oil was covered in a thick layer of dark smoke - I was still calm at this point. Oh, I forgot to turn on the oven fan - let me do that and go open the back door. I flipped on the oven fan switch and turned to the back door, all in a dilly-dally.

The second I turned back around to the kitchen, it was in flames.

The oil had basically exploded into a Calcifer-esque monster fire, confined only by the cast iron pan.

If I ever say I do well under pressure, I mean when other people are freaking out about things. I mean other people’s pressure. BUT, when it’s my pressure, when it’s MY KITCHEN ON FIRE, I’m useless. I do this thing where too many thoughts are trying to get to the action part of my brain, so I’m just standing in one place, swiveling from side to side, trying to figure out which action to take and muttering, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh no, oh no, oh my gosh.”

Finally, something snapped and I at least remembered the one rule for how to deal with a grease fire - smother it.

I ran upstairs, yelling, “Tucker, help! Help, I need help! It’s on fire! There’s fire!” I knew for sure I couldn’t do this alone, and I knew even more that I didn’t want to do this alone. This was terrifying. 

At this point, I’ll admit there were tears in my eyes. I could blame the smoke, but I was scared and frustrated and embarrassed and a complete mess. 

Tucker poked his head behind the shower curtain and shouted “What?” I grabbed every towel I could and screamed fire a few more times, then ran downstairs before I realized I wasn’t brave enough to smother the fire myself.

Luckily, Tucker was right behind me. Unluckily, he was naked and soaking wet, shampoo still in his hair. He took charge immediately, grabbing the towel from me, soaking it in water from the sink, and placing it over the pan, smothering the fire instantly.

I was standing in the corner of the kitchen, crying and being super helpful.

He strode past me and opened the back door wider. Then he looked at me and calmly said, “Okay, I’m naked.”

The absurdity of the situation made the tears stop - he needed me now; he was trusting me with something he couldn’t do. Also, he was naked and this was actually very funny. My brain knew it and my emotions were trying to catch up.

He continued, still serious, “So I can’t go outside. When you get a hold of yourself, grab the pot holder, pick up the pan, and take it outside, so we can get rid of the smoke. Can you do that?”

I nodded, sniffling. I whispered, “Yeah.”

“Okay, I’m going to put some clothes on.” He ran back upstairs, a trail of dripping water following him.

I grabbed the pan, which was hot even through the pot holder, and took it outside. My hands were shaking, and I was trying desperately to calm my breathing so I could clean the kitchen and not be such a mess when Tucker got back down stairs. Calm down, calm down. 

The icing on the cake - Tucker’s before dinner snack, sausage and cream cheese pinwheels, were still in the oven. If these had burned too, I probably would have just gone to bed and cried myself to sleep. It would have been too much to handle.

They weren’t burnt; they were perfect. I pulled them out, every action I could control bringing with it more calm. Close the oven door. Breathe. Wash your hands. Breathe. Wipe down the cupboards. Breathe. Wipe up Tucker’s shower residue from the kitchen floor. Breathe. 

I was shaky for the rest of the night - I had a hard time talking, because every word threatened to make me cry again. Tucker was very patient with me, giving me lots of hugs and kisses and doing all the talking.

He saw and enjoyed the humor immediately. When he finished dressing himself and came back downstairs, he held my shoulders and said, “You know I have to take some pictures of the kitchen and send them to the family group chat, right? You know this was very funny?”

I asked, choking up, “Can we wait?” I knew I was still too fragile to see any well-meaning jokes, no matter how funny they were.

Tucker said of course…and then immediately took photos of the chaos I’d created and sent them to the family group chat. And do you know what all the comments were about? The friggin’ pinwheels. They were on the cooling rack in the background of all the photos and they were the highlight of the chat. No one even mentioned our blackened cabinets or melted, drooping stove light. For this and many more reasons, I’m grateful for the family I married into. 

This mishap is very funny to me now and one of my fondest “first year of marriage” stories Tucker and I’ve created together. We’ve had a few more scares since then, mostly around leaving the oven on. But we just help each other - I turn it off when I go home for lunch in the afternoons. He turns it off in the mornings before he leaves for work. We text each other funny pictures of insane things we’ve burned. It’s been fun, and we won’t mention it also being “insanely dangerous” and “irresponsible.”

I’m still obsessed with feeding Tucker, and I’m getting better at cooking while keeping a very humble approach to the kitchen. I’m also still prone to accidents (I cut my finger trying to dice onions just the other day), but there’s another lesson in humility.

Lord knows, we need it every day.