A couple years ago, Carolyn invited me to join her and
her family at the local high school football game. Her oldest son was in the
marching band, and they were performing a “light show” – securing light sticks
on their uniforms and marching in total darkness. That sounded like a cool deal
(it was!!!), so I accepted the invitation. Then she invited me to join the
family for supper before the game so we could all go in one car and not have to
look for each other at the game. I volunteered to furnish dessert.
The recipe I made is called “S’more Cake.” It is a
chocolate cake, cooked in the microwave, topped with marshmallows browned under
the broiler, and then sprinkled with graham crackers and drizzled with melted
chocolate. (Yes, it’s yummy.) It’s best eaten right after it’s made, and since
it takes fewer than 10 minutes to whip up, I made the dessert at Carolyn’s
house.
An important part of this story is that no one in Carolyn’s
family ever, ever cusses. Her husband is a pastor and a chaplain, her daddy was
a pastor, and once when she was in junior high school, trying to be cool and
said, “damn,” her friend told her, “Don’t even try to cuss, Carolyn. You
weren’t made to cuss.”
So, back to the dessert situation. I cooked the cake. I
put the marshmallows on top of the cake. Carolyn and I confirmed the broiler
was ready and the rack was in the lowest position in the (electric) oven. The
marshmallows need to be under the broiler for about a minute to brown. I put
the marshmallow-covered cake into the oven and I swear to you, I turned my back
on that oven for 10 seconds and when I turned back around, the marshmallows
were on fire! Flames were shooting up from the cake! Naturally, being me, I
shouted, “Oh, shit!” Carolyn’s husband and her seven-year-old stared at me from
the kitchen table. Her husband had a small smile on his face, was looking down,
and shaking his head. The seven-year-old had eyes as big as saucers.
Carolyn started laughing and said, “You said shit!” Then
the conversation went like this:
Jackie Lucy: The marshmallows are on fire!
Carolyn: What should we do?
Jackie Lucy: I don’t know. I think it has to just burn
out.
Carolyn (opening oven door, which causes flames to leap
up): I think I can beat the fire out.
Jackie Lucy (closing the over door, agitated and um, loud,
voice): No, no! Close the door!
Carolyn (opening oven door): No, really, I can beat the
fire out with this spoon.
Jackie Lucy (slamming oven door): Don’t open the door. The
fire will stop on its own when there’s no oxygen in the oven.
Carolyn (opening door and whacking cake with spoon): See,
there you go. Fire’s all out.
And so it was. We scraped the charred marshmallow goop
off the cake, put the graham crackers and chocolate on, and ate it anyway.
(FYI, the cake wasn’t as good without that browned-marshmallow flavor, but it
was edible.)
But wait, there’s more.
We went to the football game, we watched the light show,
we went back to Carolyn’s minivan. The seven-year-old and I had our places in
the back seat, with him behind his dad (the driver) and me behind his mom. The automatic
sliding door is on the passenger side, so I was getting in through the big
sliding door.
Well.
I guess I’m slow, because everyone else was already in
the van and buckled up and I was still climbing in. I guess I’m also
uncoordinated because I had to hold onto the metal support piece between the
sliding door and the front passenger door, whatever it is called (door jamb?)
to get into the van. Whatever that thing is called, I had my hand wrapped
around it when Carolyn closed her door – on my hand. The door slammed on my
fingers between the back of my hand and my knuckles.
Naturally, being me, I shouted, “Son of a BITCH!! Ow! Ow!”
as I yanked my hand out. And this is what happened after that:
Carolyn’s husband turned around and looked at me in
alarm.
The seven-year-old stared at me with eyes as big as
platters.
Carolyn said, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” in a panicky
voice.
I said, in a small voice, holding my still-bent right-hand
fingers with my left hand, “You closed the door on my hand.”
Carolyn said, “oh, no!” and started opening her door.
I said, “It’s okay. I yanked my hand out. I’m fine.
Really.”
Carolyn’s husband got a very, very tiny almost-grin on
his face, and turned back facing the steering wheel..
The seven-year-old cut his very-wide eyes toward his dad
and then turned back to me.
Carolyn apologized over and over and I sat holding my
still-bent fingers and saying I was fine, while thinking, “Oh. I just said son
of a bitch.”
My hand was not seriously injured, although it was sore
for several days. Carolyn was so sweet and worried about my hand, but it really
was fine and no big deal to me.
I have never gotten completely over all the swearing I
did in front of Carolyn’s family, although of course, being me, I have told the
story to all my friends, and they have laughed themselves sick over it.
Carolyn has told every one of her family members and
every one of her husband’s family members and every one of her childhood
friends this story. She says they all laugh soooo hard.
Awesome.