The Burning Issue

Hot on the heels of the Burning Hat incident, another one took place closer to home. Two fiery events in one week – what are the odds?

Wednesday night, clutching glasses of red wine and a pizza we snuggle up in our adorable Casterbridge Cinema to watch Mr Turner.  A drawn out, beautifully shot, wonderfully acted turgid piece of cinematography that presumes the viewer is intimately familiar with this apparently peculiar, if brilliant, artist’s life.

We weren’t, and by all accounts neither were many patrons but anyhow, that’s neither here nor there.  It merely sets the scene – we were locked into a cinema seat for 2 and a half hours watching a bizarre story unfold before us, understanding little and struggling to make sense of any of it.

A familiar mental playacting scenario began, perfectly synchronized with the opening credits.  Did I turn off the gas hob?  We all know how this goes – just at the point of no return a devilish sprite whispers doubts into our thoughts. Garden hose?  Tap?  Stove?  Lock the front door?  The car?  And of course, we always have completed said task so thoughtlessly, the action doesn’t dent our consciousness.  A lesson in being in the moment, which we rarely are.

Brushing the sprite off with a mental laugh, I remembered clearly lifting the lid on the chicken korma to toss in some vegetables, thinking that they’d meld beautifully as the dish slowly cooled while we were away.  Of course, the hob was turned off.  Just another one of those self-doubt moments.  No way am I clambering out of my chair and driving home to check.

The welcoming stench of burnt curry greeted us as we tumbled through the kitchen door hours later.  Never mind being turned off, the flame was at full throttle!  That was no devilish sprite, it was a guardian angel trying to save me from myself, to no avail.  Yuck, the reek of charred food lingered for days, despite fragrant Yankee candles placed strategically throughout the house. 

Of course, this korma is a Karmic symbol of a meal dispute between Him Outdoors and moi.  He can’t eat spicy food, and I’d endured enough boring cuisine.  So he was free to eat leftover stew, while I was indulging in a tasty dish.  As it turns out, neither of us ate a hot meal that night – he’d donated his meal to the gardener’s lunch, and mine was charcoal.  Cheese and pickles then.

Footnote - Clearly, the lesson hasn’t imprinted sufficiently.  So engrossed in jotting down this tale, I completely forgot the soup left simmering on the stove. To the open-mouthed stupification of Him Outdoors who rescued the blackened mess and is not one to believe in lightning striking twice! Yet another fine mess I’ve made, Stanley!