Chestnuts Roasting

Chestnuts Roasting on an open fire...it just so happens to be my very favorite Christmas Song (especially sung by Nat King Cole, of course). I've never actually ever roasted chestnuts myself or even seen it done by professionals. Maybe that would have helped me the other night when I attempted the unthinkable.

With a screaming baby who always needs to be held, my time in the kitchen has been significantly compromised as of late. I still try to attempt a few new recipes each week as we desperately try to find our list of "family favorites" on the vegetarian cuisine scale.

So there we were, Lucy and I in the kitchen. She was frolicking in the Bjorn (front pack) as we chopped vegetables and talked about the economy. The night's special was a fake-chicken stir fry with roasted cashews. Seemed harmless and potentially yummy.

I spread out the raw cashews from Whole Foods onto the new cookie sheet, set the oven to broil, and went about chopping and stirring up the "fry." I started to smell something burning, but the saucepan seemed just fine. I couldn't figure it out. I kept stirring and checking the bottom of the pan, but all seemed well. I even looked in the dishwasher to rule out a possible burning plastic spoon that had fallen to it's death. Nothing of the sort.

When the thick black smoke started to BILLOW out of the oven vent, to my horror, I remembered the roasting cashews. In my best "Speedy Gonazales" I unhooked the baby and practically threw her to Russ before I attempted to survey the damage. I mean, I have burned things before. Probably more than most people, but this was a sight to behold. The cashews were roasted, that was for sure. Fire roasted.

It was the first time in my life that I had actually created real FLAMES in the kitchen, apart from a birthday cake or scented candle to cover up something else I have burned...Yet, "broil" and I have never been good friends...he always seems to get me into hot water...(pun unfortunately intended).

Each one of the cashews was literally on fire with about a 2-inch flame burning brightly. I grabbed the hot pad and charred cookie sheet and started to run about the kitchen. In my panic, I thought I could put out the fire in the kitchen sink, but Russ was yelling and signaling for me to dart outside as he and the screaming bundle scattered to the basement for cover.

I ran as fast as I could, but the cold winter's wind kicked up the flames even more. I looked like I was carrying the Olympic torch on a platter as I darted out the side door to the snow covered back yard. In haste, I chucked the flaming cashews, pan and all, into the pile of snow. The black smoke and loud sizzling hiss assured me there would be no more casualties that night.

I returned inside to the air purifier full blast and every window in the house wide open. I later found Russ and the baby hiding in the basement, covered with a blanket and hovered over another air purifier. I smiled sheepishly, shrugged my shoulders, and simply said, "um...sorry about that." I mean, what was I supposed to say? I practically burned the house down!

We ate dinner in the "bunker" in awkward silence. How were we supposed to make small talk when our eyes and lungs were burning with toxic cashew residue? It wasn't funny yet, and probably wouldn't be for quite a while. I felt like an idiot as I had to put on my winter coat and ski hat to do the dishes in my wind tunnel of a kitchen. You'd think I could have at least set a timer...seriously.

The next day when I saw Russ installing all new smoke detectors and placing a cute white kitchen fire extinguisher under the sink in PLAIN VIEW, I knew it was only because he cared. That, and he's trying to protect his offspring from what he knows won't be the last time I have to apologize for being in the kitchen.

I think I may change my favorite Christmas song after this.