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Porno for Pyros
Jul. 5th, 2004 01:00 amThe key words for tonight are "caution" and "flammable." (Bonus points for anyone who catches the reference.) I had two encounters with fire tonight, one voluntary, one involuntary.
The latter happened while preparing dinner. I was frying tortillas for the black-bean tostadas K. was making, watching them bubble and inflate in the hot oil. Some of the oil bubbled over the side of the skillet and splashed onto the burner, where it smoked for a moment...then burst into flame. "Huh," I said. I turned off the stove and quickly removed the skillet, spilling a bit more oil in the process, and soon the entire burner was aflame. Fortunately my huge cast-iron skillet was close to hand, and more than capable of smothering a little oil fire, but it was a frightening thing.
At dusk, our tummies full of tostadas (which were delicious), K. and I took the stairs from our parking lot down into West Park. The park was filled with fireflies, winking two or three feet from the ground, enough of them to make an intermittent topo map of the terrain. We sat on an asphalt path to light off fireworks for fifteen minutes or so. They produced lovely crackling noises and strobing lights and fountains of sparks:
I was thrilled; K. was...patient. She joked aloud that we were going to confuse the fireflies. When my little bag was empty, we doused the husks with water, then threw away the soggy-hot cardboard and walked home. Now, at 1 a.m., the hot night is still full of intermittent pops and snaps from like-minded hoodlums. Patriotism swells in the heart of the American bear.
The latter happened while preparing dinner. I was frying tortillas for the black-bean tostadas K. was making, watching them bubble and inflate in the hot oil. Some of the oil bubbled over the side of the skillet and splashed onto the burner, where it smoked for a moment...then burst into flame. "Huh," I said. I turned off the stove and quickly removed the skillet, spilling a bit more oil in the process, and soon the entire burner was aflame. Fortunately my huge cast-iron skillet was close to hand, and more than capable of smothering a little oil fire, but it was a frightening thing.
At dusk, our tummies full of tostadas (which were delicious), K. and I took the stairs from our parking lot down into West Park. The park was filled with fireflies, winking two or three feet from the ground, enough of them to make an intermittent topo map of the terrain. We sat on an asphalt path to light off fireworks for fifteen minutes or so. They produced lovely crackling noises and strobing lights and fountains of sparks:
I was thrilled; K. was...patient. She joked aloud that we were going to confuse the fireflies. When my little bag was empty, we doused the husks with water, then threw away the soggy-hot cardboard and walked home. Now, at 1 a.m., the hot night is still full of intermittent pops and snaps from like-minded hoodlums. Patriotism swells in the heart of the American bear.
