Double Stuff.

"You got me all hungry and stuff."

Ok, he didn't say stuff. He wasn't even talking to me, so I had him doing nothing; that was whoever was on the other end of the phone. Still, I knew how he felt. I was all hungry and stuff too. What's more I'd just built up a good appetite by trying to burn down my kitchen. Self destruction can build such an appetite!

Ok, maybe I should roll the play-back feed. Mmmmm…feed….sorry one second--I'm drooling. Here's the deal. For those of you who haven't noticed, I'm a guy. I'll lift my kilt if it helps. See? Stuff.

Traditionally guys don't do well in the kitchen. I'm no exception. I cook "stuff," but most of my "stuff" is done on the grill. Ask MyEx. Rob is to Kitchen as Fish is to Bicycle. Piece of cake right?

Mmmm….cake….

So, I grill, I bake. That's pretty much my food preparation skill set. Put me in a Jack in the Box Hat and I can do fries and onion rings too. I can also take orders; Only while wearing the hat.

So grill and oven are my cooking realms. I know, the oven is in the kitchen. You have to admit though, if I didn't know that, it sure would prove my point about not knowing the kitchen, wouldn't it? It's there, and yes, I know the oven. It's that thing that my mice hide behind.

The rest of my cooking is on the grill. Last night I'd planned a simple grill meal: a hamburger, and a baked potato. Where can a guy go wrong, right?

Yeah, keep reading...

I started like I always do. I went outside, fed my dog--because it's really rude if I make my dinner, and don't feed him. He takes it personally.

"Please sir, might I have a morsel of food? Just a bite? Please? I don't want to tear your leg off and gorge on that while you flail in pain. What will the neighbors think…"

"Oh, here ya go boy!"

"Thank you sir…"

I let my potato cook for thirty minutes, then prepare my beef. I dash a few spices then goosh (technical term) mini Peanuts' sculptures in the hamburger meat. Once mixed, I press my Chuck into Patty.

"Good to see ya, Chuck."

I take the patty out, open the grill to toss my meat--only to find the first fly in my ointment. Well, no ointment, but there is definitely a fly. He's buzzing around my potato. Why? Because there's no fire. I'm out of propane.

"Aww, Stuff!"

My meat is soft my potato is cold, and this is not looking like a good night. I'm a survivor though; I know what to do. The varmint tenement in the kitchen sublets a cooking surface. I'll fry the burger in a pan. The potato: That'll do just fine in the microwave.

I pull out the frying pan and move it into the fire. While the meat cooks, I peel the potato foil, because that never goes well in the microwave, and roll the rest of the spud in, set radiation pelt for ten minutes, and return to my burger.

Flip. Sizzle. Good.

While everything's cooking, I empty the dishwasher, and prepare the next day's coffee pot so all I have to do is push the big red button in the morning. Water, grinder, everything is moving along. Back to the meat.

Flip, Sizzle, Not done yet.

Strange smell. Burning? Not meat…

Potato?

I look back to the nuker. It's glowing.

Glowing?

Well yeah, there's a light inside.

Orange? Orange light?

No, it's whi-Oh Stuff! There's a fire in my microwave!

I yank the door, introducing an excess of oxygen. The flame picks up and black smoke billows into my face. Inhaling, to blow the fire out, I cough out the same smoke I just took in. Now I sputtering, the potato fire is raging and my lung spit isn't doing squat.

Luckily, by now the fire is out of potato fuel it's dying. Potato is not a gas substitute. The embers glow, but the flame is gone. Smoke pours out like Rob babble onto a page. I breath a sigh. Then cough out more smoke.

Good.

Wheeze...

Fire out.

Wheeze...

Problem solv--

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!

I nearly stuff my pants.

What the? Oh, smoke alarm. It's pointing out that where there's smoke, there's also a choking fool needing to evacuate. Not this time. This fool won't die, just wheeze smoke like an impotent dragon without Viagra.

Fire dead, I grab one fan to push the air past the alarm and position another fan to clear out the stink. Later, when things calm down, I survey the damage. The microwave looks good, just a little charred. Still, it has a "lived in" look. Maybe the mice will drop by. It should continue to work fine.

My burger, on the other hand, is smoldering with neglect. It's a stiff chip in a dry pan. The good news is the stove didn't join the fire, it just added more smoke, smell, and funk. Hell, it's practically a concert. Where's George Clinton when you need him?

So now, I'm wandering the mall looking for food: "Please sir, might I have a morsel of food? Just a bite..?"

"You've got me all hungry and stuff," says the guy into the phone as I shamble past, still sputtering smoke.

"Hungry and stuff?" Tell me about it...