My oldest, Luke, ran into the nursery with that announcement around 5:00 last Tuesday evening. He wasn't lying. That sentence began, what would turn out to be, the longest feeling 3 minute panic attack of my life.
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It all started with a preplanned play date, a few good intentions, a house filled with my rowdy hooligans, a lot of butter and some sugar. It all ended with a malfunctioned fire extinguisher, a few melted kitchen appliances, a house filled with firemen, a lot of soot and some tears.
We had plans to play Wednesday morning at my dear friend Amy's house. She's got two kiddos that my three hooligans love and adore, a Keurig that just won't quit and a toy selection that is to die for. In short, it's basically heaven for all parties involved. My best friend Sara had made and recommended some homemade caramel corn recently so I thought it might be the perfect snack to bring and take along. "Make it!" she said. "It is SO EASY!" So, I happily stalked her Pinterest page, found the aforementioned recipe, and set to work.
I opened the recipe, pre-read the instructions, and started cooking. Sara wasn't lying. The recipe did seem delicious. And, in her defense, it seemed pretty straight forward: Pop your popcorn, make your caramel, coat everything together, bake, cool and eat by the fist full. The big kids were in and out of the kitchen while I was cooking, (which was totally fine and completely normal) and Nathan was happily chew/teething on some rubber toys in his Pack n' Play in the living room. We had an episode of Curious George to keep us company, our supper was in the oven, (My cousin-in-love Mary's Chicken Enchiladas. YUMMM. It still pains me that my entire 9x13 pan of cheesy deliciousness was sacrificed in the fire. Bummer.) and Matt was battling the Pensacola Beach traffic as he was heading home from work. It was a fairly normal, but somewhat rowdy kinda evening.
I got the popcorn made, and worked on getting my caramel started. I plopped my stick of butter down intp my biggest gumbo pot, added in my brown sugar and just as it was getting melted and yummy looking, Nathan started wailing. He's cutting teeth and fighting some MAJOR congestion, so I figured the best bet would be to put the caramel corn on pause, freshen his diaper and see if that might help improve his sour disposition. I switched the stove off and went to tend to my fussy fella.
And it all went downhill from there.
Not three minutes after I left the kitchen, Luke came streaking back into the nursery proclaiming that there was "lightning in the kitchen"! I peered down the hall, but didn't notice much, so I finished fastening Nathan's fresh diaper and set out to investigate. I rounded the hallway corner into our living room and noticed the smoke. The billowing, black, you've-just-scorched-some-butter-and-sugar-and-that-is-gonna-be-a-nightmare-to-clean-outta-your-pot, kinda smoke. I quickly deposited Nathan back into his Pack n' Play and dashed into the doorway of the kitchen where I discovered that there were camp fire sized flames coming from my gumbo pot. About that time is when time slowed down to a crawl.
It felt like I stood there for hours, just staring. I had this unreal and bizarre scene coming from my stovetop. It felt surreal, standing there, seeing those bright, orange flames in my kitchen. I'd seen fire, sure. And I'd seen my kitchen, of course. But seeing both of those scenes meshed together made me feel like I was in the Twilight Zone or something.
I shooed the kids into the living room, far away from the kitchen stove and grabbed my fire extinguisher off of the top of my ice box. "Man, this extinguisher is gonna make an even bigger MESS.", I thought to myself as I pulled the pin out of the handle and got ready to squeeze the lever. I found the tab on the top of the extinguisher, pushed down... AND NOTHING HAPPENED. I quickly looked at the canister, feeling like I'd somehow suddenly become deaf, blind and mute. I really thought I knew how to operate a fire extinguisher, but I couldn't get this one to work. So I shook and squeezed and after two or three more tries, I realized it wasn't going happen.
Meanwhile, the fire was getting bigger and the smoke was starting to get thick as I walked closer to the stove. That's when I saw what I had done: In my hurry to go get Nathan, I'd switched the knob on the stove past "OFF" and onto "HIGH". So I reached around the pot, turned the heat off and nothing happened. My stove is a flat top, so the eyes hold heat like crazy, even after they've been switched off. So I picked up a kitchen towel, grabbed the handle of the pot and jerked it to the other side of the stove where the eyes were off and cold. Still, though, nothing happened. Even on the cold side of the stove, the flames were just as high as before, reaching all the way past our microwave hood and starting to hit the upper cabinets. I briefly thought about trying to smother the flames with my kitchen towel, but thought better of it as the corner had already smoldered after using it to drag the pot off the heat. Carrying the flaming pot of caramel to the sink also briefly crossed my mind, but remembering a similar incident my Mom had in our kitchen growing up, I quickly ruled that out, too. She jerked a flaming pot off her stove and put it in her sink only to burn her arms, neck and face as well as her kitchen windowsill and sink. So I found the pot lid, quickly put it on the top of the pot and IT STILL DIDN'T PUT THE FIRE OUT. The flames kept leaping out from around the edge of the lid and that's when I knew there was no way I was going to be able to get this fire out by myself.
I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. I gathered up my three precious priorities (and the dog, of course) and got us out of the house. I didn't know what my kitchen would look like by the time this was all said and done, but I knew that I wasn't going to stick around to find out. I kept myself together long enough to relay the situation to the emergency dispatcher, hung up with them and called my husband, Matt. I hung up with him just as the Sheriff's deputy arrived to see my front door standing open with thick, black smoke billowing out. The fire department showed up seconds later, and by the time they all made it inside, the fire had finally gone out. Midway Fire Department was amazing. They pulled some fans off of their truck to help suck the smoke out of my house, came over with some stickers for the kids and spent the next 45 minutes in my driveway while the house aired out.
About 20 minutes after they arrived, Matt got home and we were able to go in and survey the damage. It was pretty awful to look at, but it was so, so, SO much better than it could have been. And I felt awful. After I gave my statement to the Battalion Chief for the fire report, I asked him if there was anything else I could have done or should have done to better react to the situation. And bless that man's heart, because he looked me straight in the eye and said "Ma'am, your response to this very real, very serious fire in your house was textbook perfect. It's fires like this that can burn houses to the ground. Homeowners panic, run without thinking, and that's what takes something from being just a burned out kitchen and turns it into a pile of rubble. You had an extinguisher, you had smoke detectors, you killed the heat source, you attempted to cut off the oxygen supply. There is literally NOTHING ELSE that you could have done to stop this fire." Well, as frazzled and embarassed and guilty and scared as I was feeling: That made me feel just the *tiniest* bit better.
If you gain nothing else from this post, I want you to remember what I am about to tell you. Forget everything else, but please, please, PLEASE don't forget this. Tell your family, share it with your friends, holler it across the fence to your neighbor as she's watering her petunias: The reason my fire extinguisher didn't work was because the powdered fire dispersent (basically baking soda) had settled down to the bottom of my canister like a brick. Over time, gravity can cause the contents to settle into the bottom of the can, and if that happens, when you pull the pin and squeeze the trigger, NOTHING WILL COME OUT. To keep this from happening, twice a year when you change the batteries in your smoke detectors, you need to shake your fire extinguishers. If you shake yours and it feels like there's a brick is at the bottom- it's already settled and it isn't going to work. Go get a new one. Or twelve. If you turn yours upside down and it feels like there is sand falling, you are good to go. Keep it close and check it regularly. My can's gauge read 'FULL' and it was not expired, but even so, it still.didn't.work. Before last Tuesday, I had never heard anyone, anywhere mention that you needed to shake your extinguishers. But from now on, I will. And I hope you will, too.
We've got a lot of clean up and construction in our future. We will be due for a new microwave hood andpossibly probably stove. There are some cabinets to be replaced and some doors to be refinished. Ceilings have been scraped and lights have been removed. For the next few weeks, my front door is going to be a revolving door of adjusters and contractors and inspectors. I am frazzled and fried and overwhelmed. I'm on a pre-kitchen-repair-Pinterest-inspiration overload. But more than anything else, I am grateful. I'm thankful. I am blessed. Because even though there were parts of my home that were ruined, nothing of any real value was harmed.
God spared us that evening. His hand protected us and His peace gave me the clear head I needed in order to keep my family safe and out of harm's way. I managed to keep myself (mostly) together that day while the firemen were here. I didn't cry when Matt drove up and surveyed the damage with me. I was pretty calm while we got Chinese take out and went to my sister-in-love's to feed the kids and get them ready for bed. But later that night, when everything was quiet and everyone was sleeping, I cried. I sobbed. I ran every possible 'worst case scenario' through my mind as I fought sleep. I didn't sleep much that night. (Or for the next few, if I'm being honest.) I prayed and thanked God for keeping us safe. For safeguarding us. For keeping us under His sheltering wing. Because as long as we're there, the fires can rage. The walls can crumble and the roof can turn to ash. As long as we remain faithful, we will always be found safe. My material possessions may be ruined, but my true treasure will forever be safe as long as I store it with Him.
------------------------------------
It all started with a preplanned play date, a few good intentions, a house filled with my rowdy hooligans, a lot of butter and some sugar. It all ended with a malfunctioned fire extinguisher, a few melted kitchen appliances, a house filled with firemen, a lot of soot and some tears.
We had plans to play Wednesday morning at my dear friend Amy's house. She's got two kiddos that my three hooligans love and adore, a Keurig that just won't quit and a toy selection that is to die for. In short, it's basically heaven for all parties involved. My best friend Sara had made and recommended some homemade caramel corn recently so I thought it might be the perfect snack to bring and take along. "Make it!" she said. "It is SO EASY!" So, I happily stalked her Pinterest page, found the aforementioned recipe, and set to work.
I opened the recipe, pre-read the instructions, and started cooking. Sara wasn't lying. The recipe did seem delicious. And, in her defense, it seemed pretty straight forward: Pop your popcorn, make your caramel, coat everything together, bake, cool and eat by the fist full. The big kids were in and out of the kitchen while I was cooking, (which was totally fine and completely normal) and Nathan was happily chew/teething on some rubber toys in his Pack n' Play in the living room. We had an episode of Curious George to keep us company, our supper was in the oven, (My cousin-in-love Mary's Chicken Enchiladas. YUMMM. It still pains me that my entire 9x13 pan of cheesy deliciousness was sacrificed in the fire. Bummer.) and Matt was battling the Pensacola Beach traffic as he was heading home from work. It was a fairly normal, but somewhat rowdy kinda evening.
I got the popcorn made, and worked on getting my caramel started. I plopped my stick of butter down intp my biggest gumbo pot, added in my brown sugar and just as it was getting melted and yummy looking, Nathan started wailing. He's cutting teeth and fighting some MAJOR congestion, so I figured the best bet would be to put the caramel corn on pause, freshen his diaper and see if that might help improve his sour disposition. I switched the stove off and went to tend to my fussy fella.
And it all went downhill from there.
Not three minutes after I left the kitchen, Luke came streaking back into the nursery proclaiming that there was "lightning in the kitchen"! I peered down the hall, but didn't notice much, so I finished fastening Nathan's fresh diaper and set out to investigate. I rounded the hallway corner into our living room and noticed the smoke. The billowing, black, you've-just-scorched-some-butter-and-sugar-and-that-is-gonna-be-a-nightmare-to-clean-outta-your-pot, kinda smoke. I quickly deposited Nathan back into his Pack n' Play and dashed into the doorway of the kitchen where I discovered that there were camp fire sized flames coming from my gumbo pot. About that time is when time slowed down to a crawl.
It felt like I stood there for hours, just staring. I had this unreal and bizarre scene coming from my stovetop. It felt surreal, standing there, seeing those bright, orange flames in my kitchen. I'd seen fire, sure. And I'd seen my kitchen, of course. But seeing both of those scenes meshed together made me feel like I was in the Twilight Zone or something.
I shooed the kids into the living room, far away from the kitchen stove and grabbed my fire extinguisher off of the top of my ice box. "Man, this extinguisher is gonna make an even bigger MESS.", I thought to myself as I pulled the pin out of the handle and got ready to squeeze the lever. I found the tab on the top of the extinguisher, pushed down... AND NOTHING HAPPENED. I quickly looked at the canister, feeling like I'd somehow suddenly become deaf, blind and mute. I really thought I knew how to operate a fire extinguisher, but I couldn't get this one to work. So I shook and squeezed and after two or three more tries, I realized it wasn't going happen.
Meanwhile, the fire was getting bigger and the smoke was starting to get thick as I walked closer to the stove. That's when I saw what I had done: In my hurry to go get Nathan, I'd switched the knob on the stove past "OFF" and onto "HIGH". So I reached around the pot, turned the heat off and nothing happened. My stove is a flat top, so the eyes hold heat like crazy, even after they've been switched off. So I picked up a kitchen towel, grabbed the handle of the pot and jerked it to the other side of the stove where the eyes were off and cold. Still, though, nothing happened. Even on the cold side of the stove, the flames were just as high as before, reaching all the way past our microwave hood and starting to hit the upper cabinets. I briefly thought about trying to smother the flames with my kitchen towel, but thought better of it as the corner had already smoldered after using it to drag the pot off the heat. Carrying the flaming pot of caramel to the sink also briefly crossed my mind, but remembering a similar incident my Mom had in our kitchen growing up, I quickly ruled that out, too. She jerked a flaming pot off her stove and put it in her sink only to burn her arms, neck and face as well as her kitchen windowsill and sink. So I found the pot lid, quickly put it on the top of the pot and IT STILL DIDN'T PUT THE FIRE OUT. The flames kept leaping out from around the edge of the lid and that's when I knew there was no way I was going to be able to get this fire out by myself.
I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. I gathered up my three precious priorities (and the dog, of course) and got us out of the house. I didn't know what my kitchen would look like by the time this was all said and done, but I knew that I wasn't going to stick around to find out. I kept myself together long enough to relay the situation to the emergency dispatcher, hung up with them and called my husband, Matt. I hung up with him just as the Sheriff's deputy arrived to see my front door standing open with thick, black smoke billowing out. The fire department showed up seconds later, and by the time they all made it inside, the fire had finally gone out. Midway Fire Department was amazing. They pulled some fans off of their truck to help suck the smoke out of my house, came over with some stickers for the kids and spent the next 45 minutes in my driveway while the house aired out.
About 20 minutes after they arrived, Matt got home and we were able to go in and survey the damage. It was pretty awful to look at, but it was so, so, SO much better than it could have been. And I felt awful. After I gave my statement to the Battalion Chief for the fire report, I asked him if there was anything else I could have done or should have done to better react to the situation. And bless that man's heart, because he looked me straight in the eye and said "Ma'am, your response to this very real, very serious fire in your house was textbook perfect. It's fires like this that can burn houses to the ground. Homeowners panic, run without thinking, and that's what takes something from being just a burned out kitchen and turns it into a pile of rubble. You had an extinguisher, you had smoke detectors, you killed the heat source, you attempted to cut off the oxygen supply. There is literally NOTHING ELSE that you could have done to stop this fire." Well, as frazzled and embarassed and guilty and scared as I was feeling: That made me feel just the *tiniest* bit better.
If you gain nothing else from this post, I want you to remember what I am about to tell you. Forget everything else, but please, please, PLEASE don't forget this. Tell your family, share it with your friends, holler it across the fence to your neighbor as she's watering her petunias: The reason my fire extinguisher didn't work was because the powdered fire dispersent (basically baking soda) had settled down to the bottom of my canister like a brick. Over time, gravity can cause the contents to settle into the bottom of the can, and if that happens, when you pull the pin and squeeze the trigger, NOTHING WILL COME OUT. To keep this from happening, twice a year when you change the batteries in your smoke detectors, you need to shake your fire extinguishers. If you shake yours and it feels like there's a brick is at the bottom- it's already settled and it isn't going to work. Go get a new one. Or twelve. If you turn yours upside down and it feels like there is sand falling, you are good to go. Keep it close and check it regularly. My can's gauge read 'FULL' and it was not expired, but even so, it still.didn't.work. Before last Tuesday, I had never heard anyone, anywhere mention that you needed to shake your extinguishers. But from now on, I will. And I hope you will, too.
We've got a lot of clean up and construction in our future. We will be due for a new microwave hood and
God spared us that evening. His hand protected us and His peace gave me the clear head I needed in order to keep my family safe and out of harm's way. I managed to keep myself (mostly) together that day while the firemen were here. I didn't cry when Matt drove up and surveyed the damage with me. I was pretty calm while we got Chinese take out and went to my sister-in-love's to feed the kids and get them ready for bed. But later that night, when everything was quiet and everyone was sleeping, I cried. I sobbed. I ran every possible 'worst case scenario' through my mind as I fought sleep. I didn't sleep much that night. (Or for the next few, if I'm being honest.) I prayed and thanked God for keeping us safe. For safeguarding us. For keeping us under His sheltering wing. Because as long as we're there, the fires can rage. The walls can crumble and the roof can turn to ash. As long as we remain faithful, we will always be found safe. My material possessions may be ruined, but my true treasure will forever be safe as long as I store it with Him.
"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal; for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."
Jesus, speaking to a crowd on a hillside near Capernamum, during the Sermon on the Mount. {Matthew 6: 19-21}
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