Wednesday evening I came home, cut some squash, shredded some cabbage and onion, got my ingredients out for the lemon pie, juiced said lemons and was baking the crust and another pie in the oven. Somewhere in the midst of all that I had it in my mind to do a crossword puzzle.
As usual, the oven, powered by hellfire, is baking too hotly so I have to keep an eye on my pie crust. 8 minutes into baking, I open the stove to check on my smoldering crust and when I pull the door the dishcloth that is resting on the handle flies up, knocking my crossword pen (that’s right, bitches: I do my crossword puzzles in pen; that’s how hardcore I am) straight into the oven. And, of course, it could land on the baking sheet or balance sideways across the racks. Oh no, it heads straight to the bottom of the oven, balancing precariously over one of the vents leading to the flames.
Already having my thinking cap on, I run down the hallway to get a pair of barbecue tongs and come out to find 1/2 of a plastic pen, melted into a pleasing noodle shape. The rest of the pen? Down into the vent. Unlike ovens of old, you can’t simply pop a knife in the corner of one of these suckers and tilt the shield up, you have to unscrew it and then pop it up so within moments a not at all pleasing odor of baking plastic and ink wafted through the whole house, along with the subtle, creamy hint of coconut from my now tainted custard pie.