Last night we were supposed to have BLTs with chicken for dinner. (The husband didn't think a BLT would provide me with enough protein, so I agreed we could have chicken on our sandwiches, too.)
So I start cleaning and seasoning the chicken breasts, and the husband gets out the grill tray and tells me he's going to cook the bacon on the grill.
I don't think anything of this; I don't stop him. In fact, I watch him clear a space on the counter, delicately separate the bacon slices and perfectly arrange them on the tray.
Can you tell where this is going?
I have no idea how much time passed, but the next thing I know I hear four-letter words inappropriate for sharing on a blog I know my grandma reads, and the husband is running out the door to the grill, which is now spewing black smoke everywhere for our neighbors to smell.
The husband flips open the grill lid and flames shoot high into the air. There goes the new roof I hated and then grew to love, I think. The bacon is a total loss, I can tell, but that is the least of my worries. He sprints down the porch stairs and reaches for the outdoor spigot.
"I'm pretty sure you shouldn't spray water on that," I tell him, sticking my head out the door while trying to contain the dogs in the kitchen. "It's a grease fire. I wouldn't use water." The husband hesitates but luckily listens and turns the water off.
The flames die down a bit once he turns off the gas and he closes the lid. Crises averted.
And then I hear two dog feet hit the floor like they've just been propped up on the kitchen counter.
I turn and spot Chance with a huge raw chicken breast in his mouth. I scold him and fork the chicken breast into the trash as the husband comes back into the house.
"So, where do you want to go?" The husband asks.
We went to a Chinese buffet. It was horrible, and we're never going there again. The moral of this story: You shouldn't cook bacon on a grill and what we ate Sunday was so much better than Tuesday.