I have warned my husband off and on over the years of my quickly diminishing interest in the domestic arts. He has ignored me. There is a phrase from William Congreve’s, The Mourning Bride, that says, hell has no fury like a woman scorned. Well, I would like to mention that the results aren’t any better when a woman is ignored.
My kitchen disasters over the years have not been intentional. However, I can’t help but wonder if my subconscious is attempting to take over where my conscious side has failed. Over the years I have put down glass lids on hot burners, left the room and then reacted with sheer shock at the explosion of burning glass flying around the room. The upside was the new kitchen floor I got out of it.
At other times, I have accepted my lot in life as the preparer of food with such enthusiasm that I have fancied myself as Rachael Ray’s twin sister. My fingers rocked the ultra sharp knife back in forth with such rhythm that I lost control and sliced off the tip of a very important digit. It looks so much easier on TV.
At other times, my romantic side has taken over, and I have envisioned my beloved family coming home to a roaring fire in the fireplace of our 1930’s bungalow. But a thick menacing smoke filled the house thwarting my plans. Stupid fireplace! I called a friend. (A call to the fire department seemed a bit dramatic). She walked into the house, walked over to the fireplace and mentioned that maybe I might consider opening the flue next time as she gave it a yank.
If you are friends with me on facebook you will have heard about my latest domestic disaster. I hate to cook. My mom says her perfect house doesn’t have a kitchen, and I’m inclined to agree with her. But there are living creatures in my house that have need of nourishment with some sort of food. It’s a conundrum.
The other day I revisited my Rachael Ray desires and attempted iced tea. We aren’t even talking food here! I could have used the mix, which we had in the cabinet, but homemade is better. So having brewed sixteen cups of water to the boiling point, I poured it into the glass pitcher and attempted to move said pitcher from the counter to the refrigerator. The lid WAS securely tightened onto the glass pitcher. Somehow the glass pitcher separated itself from the plastic lid and crashed to the floor. A very sick joke.
What followed was like slow motion in the movies. I could not move my feet out of the scalding water fast enough. It lapped up layers of skin on my foot with speed and fury. The last time I saw a burn like this was on my then 10-month old son right after he grabbed a hot cup of coffee and spilled it down his front. He was wearing fleece. Fleece and heat are not a good combination. Now I knew how my poor baby felt as he lay flailing in my arms in the ambulance.
My feet will live. The human body has an incredible way of healing itself. Just more evidence for the argument of intelligent design by a very creative Designer. Here’s what I learned:
1). I will never mix glass and extreme heat again. I will use plastic, and I don’t care if it’s filled with BPA’s. It’s a much less painful way to go.
2). Just because your 13-year old son spends more time in his lair than he does in the family room does not mean he has no ability to react lovingly in a crisis. For some reason, my husband is always MIA during these situations. If it hadn’t been for my sweet Nick pouring cold water on my feet and ordering me to the tub, I don’t know what I would have done. He called my husband at work, got me to cold running water and started cleaning up the mess. Great affirmation that his brain is developing normally.
3). I will accept my lot as a half-hearted domestic diva. There are fewer accidents when I’m not trying to be something I am not. Plus, it will give my kids something to tell they’re therapist when they’re adults. “I was so abused as a kid. We ate cereal for dinner” they’ll say. To which the therapist will shake his head with a “tsk, tsk” and a “Shameful.”
4). I’m not kidding when I say that my first coherent thought on the way to the ER was “Is this what hell will be like?” I know, depressing, but think about it. This was just a foot that got burned that was treated quickly with ice, topical ointment, bandaging and some very strong pain medication. There will be none of that in hell, not to mention, there’s going to be more burning than just feet with no end in sight. And that’s just the physical torment of it. It was sobering to say the least.
The moral of the story is that our feet need to be fitted with the gospel of peace (Eph. 6:15). When mine are healed I need to be using them to walk the Gospel message to those who’ve never heard it.
Kathryn Nielson 