You know, I have had dinners metaphorically blow up in my face before.Â But yesterday was a first.
I stayed home with the Queen, because she was running a high fever and coughing her poor little toddler heart out (rest easy, dear readers.Â Her fever broke early afternoon and she was hamming it up by end of day.)Â So since I had time for “dinner prep” for a change, I decided to make yeast rolls.
I had them in my nice 13 x 9 pyrex baking pan, and I actually remembered to pull them out of the oven at exactly the right moment of doneness: when they were all golden and flaky and yeasty.
And then I set the dish down on the stovetop.Â Apparently, on a burner I had forgotten to turn off.
In about three minutes, I started to smell something that was suspiciously like burned yeast rolls.Â I quickly figured out what I’d done, and with the potholders (safety first!) I moved the pan to the cold side of the stove.Â Apparently, it was much, much colder than the burner.
I stepped back about four steps, to holler down the hall at Chris what I’d done, when the 13 x 9 pyrex baking dish blew up rather spectacularly.Â It even made the “boom!” noise.Â Shards of superheated pyrex shrapnel flew everywhere, burning holes in the vinyl tile floor.Â It was … impressive, to say the least.
I just stood there for a moment, rather shell-shocked, having a lovely moment of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.Â I am pretty sure Chris came running up behind me, asked if I was okay, and then escorted me forceably to the living room.Â I am fairly certain I said I was okay.
All in all, it could have been much worse.Â I escaped with just a few small cuts, and nobody else was even in the room.Â I had it all cleaned up within an hour.Â The damage to the floor was not appreciably worse than the condition it’s already in.
But doggone it, those yeast rolls were perfect.