Death By Meatloaf
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See this pretty meatloaf?
Yeah, I didn’t make it. Thank you, Pixaby Images.
I tried for years to perfect my meatloaf making expertise. I mean it’s the all-American Go To Meal, right? Can I really don my nifty, bubble gum pink, cupcake adorned apron knowing that I can’t even bake a simple meatloaf?
I can make a lasagna that makes every person who says “Trust me, Amanda, I/my mom/my grandma/my drunk next door neighbor makes the best lasagna” drool and beg for seconds.
Ok, I didn’t make this one either…But trust me mine’s just as pretty!
But my meatloaf?
Needless to say, I was forbidden to make anymore meatloaf. It really broke my little Joan Cleaver heart.
So now, you can imagine my elation when I found a fresh, prepared meatloaf in the meat department of my local Publix. It already had the perfect meat to bread crumb ratio! It was perfectly season and molded into a pretty shape. In. Its. Own. Pan. Bake. Eat. Dispose. Best meatloaf ever. I can retain my self-proclaimed Domestic Goddessness without feeling like a poser.
So fast forward 10 meatloaves later…
I overslept that morning, making everyone late for school and myself late for work. The day was stellar already. Halfway through my day of entertaining 24 2-year-olds (yeah, no you read that correctly,) I realized I forgot to thaw out meat for dinner.
That afternoon I spent a good 45 minutes in the daycare director’s office hearing how my daughter had gone all Rosemary’s baby on her teacher. Again. Ahem. The fact that this was the day she was kicked out of daycare is irrelevant.
On the way home I stopped at Publix to grab a meatloaf (America’s Go-To Meal, people) and some sides. My daughter had the Gimmies throughout the store and was in full meltdown mode during the ride home. As we pulled into the driveway she was eerily quiet but I was a little distracted and my reaction time was delayed as she bolted from the car and took off down the block.
In the rain. Did I mention it was raining?
A half an hour later I had corralled all children, groceries, and my tattered dignity into the house. I threw the meatloaf into the oven and collapsed onto a dining room chair.
-Children glued to TV show? Check.
-Dinner started? Check.
-Mommy having her daily anxiety attack? Check.
I put my head down on the table as I attempted to catch my breath and slow my pounding heart. As I am staring, thoughtfully, at the little window of the oven, I see a small flash of light. WTF?
-Grease catching pan placed under slightly overstuffed meatloaf pan? FAIL!
As I rush towards the oven and see a couple more of those little flashes. I am hoping to get to the oven before it makes too much of a greasy mess. I reach for the handle and…
Booph! The entire inside of the oven is on fire!! I am panicking! My first thought is: Water! Wait, that may not be a good idea, Amanda. The oven is electric. I sense badness in this plan.
Okay, okay: Salt! Awesome, I am still reigning Goddess. Except? The salt is in the cabinet above the burning oven, along with a big bottle of vegetable oil!
&^%^*%@#!! Why do we not have a fire extinguisher?!?
Just as I have lost all hope and I reach for my phone to call in some Big Dogs, the fire disappears. Like my oven was saying, “Ha! Just effing with you.”
Just then, my ex-husband shows up…
As I relayed my terrifying story he interrupts to ask, “Why didn’t you grab the fire extinguisher from the garage?”
No wonder we are divorced.
Until next time, scribe happy (and safe)!
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