Oh, no! Ow! Ow! Ow!

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.