She’d posted an unusual Facebook post with three photos that morning.  The first, a frying pan, filled with blackened, smoking chicken. The second, a dozen eggs, shattered on the floor. The third, a red fire engine in the driveway. And no explanation. I was concerned for her safety, even her psychological well being.

I didn’t see the post ’til late that night. She lives a thousand miles and a time zone away. I waited ‘til morning to call. She picked up on the second ring. Relieved to hear her calm, steady voice on the other end, I peppered her with questions. Close as I can tell, this is her tale.

Yesterday she had a full day of appointments and company coming for dinner. She downed a quick cup of coffee, filled the dog’s water bowl. Gathered her meeting notes, poured a large lidded to-go mug, headed out the door. She arrived for her meeting with him just in time. The secretary, puzzled to see her, explained he wasn’t expected ‘til noon. She called, and he apologized  profusely. He’d forgotten the meeting, but could be there an hour. Could she meet him then? She could.

She lived nearby and hurried home to work on quick dinner prep for the company before returning for the delayed meeting. Setting the eggs on the counter edge, she heated oil in the skillet to brown the chicken. Her cell rang while grabbing the chicken from the fridge. She set down the chicken to get the phone.

What happened next she doesn’t know for sure, but both the eggs and the chicken plummeted to the floor. SPLAT!  %&$*#@

Letting the phone go to voicemail, she retrieved the package of shrink wrapped chicken, rinsed it. And mindful of the time, quickly added the chicken to the hot oil.

Her cell rang again. It was her husband calling back. A work crisis, and he needed her ear. At that precise moment, the coffee came calling. She toted the phone into the bathroom while he filled her in on the latest work woe.

She listened intently and sympathetically for what felt like moments, but was in reality longer. She was jolted from the conversation by a piercing sound, like a fire alarm.

It WAS a fire alarm. Hers.

Then came the acrid smell. Oh no, the chicken! She hung up, flew to the kitchen. Clouds of black Smoke billowed from the frying pan, filling the kitchen.

Eyes stinging, she held her breath. Switched off the burner. Side-stepped the egg carnage. Deactivated the blaring alarm. Sputtering, she slipped onto the porch to inhale oxygen and call the fire department.

“I think everything’s ok, but I just burned some chicken on the stovetop and it set off the alarms. But everything seems fine.”

“No worries maa’m, probably better check it out anyway. We’ve got a crew in your area finishing up another call. They’ll be there momentarily.”

No worries??? The Smoke was caustic. The house a mess. And now “visitors” were on the way?

She raced in to clean up the eggs. The shells were easy enough. She sprayed and wiped. Wiped and sprayed. Gathered the scattered mail. Straightened the coffee table books. Plumped the sofa pillows. Knitting in the basket. Doggie toys stowed.

Just in the nick of time.

The doorbell rang. It was the firemen. Breathlessly, she explained the mornings’ events.

They checked out the kitchen. Satisfied, they humored her by posing with the truck before heading back to the station.

That’s when it hit her.

THE MEETING. I MISSED THE MEETING!!!

She picked up the phone, regretfully rescheduled. Only 10 a.m. and already she craved a glass of pinot. She cranked the windows, then headed to the grocery store to buy you know what…

Eggs and chicken.

No shortage of conversation at the dinner table that evening. The scented candles barely disguised the odor. A gourmet cook, I wasn’t surprised to hear she’d somehow pulled off a four course dinner despite the hellish morning.

So thankful she and her dear family were ok, I asked her one last question….

“So my friend. Which came first? The chicken, or the eggs?”

True story, and I just couldn’t resist asking her that last question. (So glad she laughed.)

Friends, have a wonderful Labor Day weekend! If you need some great recipes for Monday, you know where to go…

You may also enjoy: Busted (Yeah Me)

The post Where There’s Smoke appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

I think we can all safely agree it’s a good thing toilets can’t talk. A very good thing.

And this isn’t going where you think it is….

I live in a small New England city. And for such a small city, we have an amazingly large amount of sticky red tape to snip snip through to get anything done. Just try having a church picnic in a local park. You’ll have to go in person to about ten million city offices, fill out a bajillion forms. Yeah. And you still might not get the green light.

If Toilets Could Talk by allie taylor

A friend of mine was telling me a funny story that happened in our fair city last week. Truth is stranger than fiction. Made me laugh. You’re gonna laugh too.

(I know, I know. You’ll be the judge of that.)

So my friend and her family are selling the home they’ve lived in for decades now over on Chestnut Street. The house is up on the market, some work needs to be done to get it up to snuff. Among other things, a toilet needs to be replaced. Yeah, the main character of this story is a commode. And If Toilets Could Talk, it might tell you this story. But it can’t. So I will. (It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.)

So this particular john (my apologies if your name is john) served the family faithfully for many years, and now it was time to be replaced. The plumber put it out on the curb, and my friend needed to dispose of it before the upcoming open house on the weekend. She calls the recycling department in the city. And here’s a little sticky red tape for you. They tell her she has to come in person to the recycling department, make an appointment for the toilet to be picked up by city recycling. Pay a $25 fee. Off she goes downtown to the city recycling department to snip snip. Snip snip.

She intends to make the appointment and pay up. But they can’t fit in her in the schedule for a few weeks. This is a real problem with the upcoming open house on the weekend and toilet out front. She decides not to pay the fee, and drives home to figure out a different solution to dispose of the old toilet.

She gets home, and the commode is no longer on the curb. Vanished. She goes inside, asks her daughter the whereabouts of the toilet.

“You’ll never believe what happened,” says her daughter.

“There was a knock on the door about a half hour ago and it was a man from the city recycling department.”

He says, “M’aam, I’m so sorry, but we were doing a pick-up across the street, turned our truck around in front of your house, didn’t see your toilet there. I feel terrible, so sorry. But we ran over it, smashed it. Again, so sorry. You ok if we clean up the mess, dispose of it for you?”

Her daughter, wide eyed, sees the toilet on the street, smashed to smithereens.

She nods, suppresses the cheshire cat grin.

Says, “That will be fine.”

More than one way to skin a cat snip red tape.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty had a great fall.

All the city’s horses and all the city’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again.

You may also enjoy: Every Time A Bell Rings

The post If Toilets Could Talk appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.