It has been a rough week, but into all sadness a little levity sneaks.
I put some chicken in the oven tonight for dinner through the weekend. Nothing fancy – just a simple, roasted chicken. Since it was cooking for 45 minutes, I stepped outside to chat with M about projects he is working on with pool and tree maintenance. My phone was in my pocket, because I thought I had set the timer to get the chicken out on time.
Working outside is not my strength, but we have been working on cleaning up old crap from my mom’s home and that we have had for years and years and apparently carted to and from various houses and storage units. Our efforts at downsizing continue, but it’s a long slog. In the back deck area, we’ve had boxes of stuff to be sorted out, some to donation, some to trash, a select few item to keep. I got started on the last few boxes – almost all ended up in the trash can – but since I was sure the timer would be going off for dinner, I completely lost track of time.
Next I know my phone is ringing. It’s our alarm company, which apparently we have some sort of sensor – either a smoke detector or a carbon monoxide monitor that had alerted them. When we did not answer them on the interior speaker, they rang my phone. Conversation was something like this:
Alarm Monitor: Hello, this is alarm monitor. Is everything okay?
Me: Of course. Did the alarm go off?
Alarm Monitor: The fire sensor thing went off and you did not respond to our call.
Me: Oh SHIT! (ripping open slider and smelling the burning dinner)
And that, dear friends, is how homemade charcoal from chicken is created. It is no wonder we tend to stick with the grocery deli rotisserie chicken when we want actual roasted chicken.
I ended up eating a sandwich and M had some canned chili for dinner. Could have been so much worse.