The Butch and the Bacon Sandwich
This happened many years ago - you can tell that by the fact that it was bacon I was cremating...erm cooking. I wasn't even a vegetarian then let alone a vegan. In fact I knew so little about it that if anybody had asked me if I knew what a vegan was my answer would have been "sure, I never miss Star Trek".
Anyway, I had my own flat in a rather unromantic part of Essex and I still took women home occasionally - and even bought them breakfast. I say bought because I tended to eat at the cafe just down the road. Or get pizza, chinese or indian takeaways. I didn't learn to cook until I became a vegetarian. I had to then as there were very few veggie takeaways.
I'd been exceeding lucky the previous evening. I'd not only brought a woman home - I'd brought a gorgeous, sexy, intelligent and very posh woman home. God only knows what she was doing with me because she was way out of my league. And much too posh for the heart-attack-on-a-plate-of-grease that the cafe fondly believed constituted a traditional English breakfast.
So I offered to cook her breakfast. It was with much trepidation I entered my kitchen. I didn't use it often so I wasn't quite sure where everything was. Or even if there was anything to cook. I was betting there would be something because my cousin had been visiting and my aunt had sent strange things to put in the fridge for me. You know - leafy green vegetables and things.
Bingo!! There was bacon, eggs and a loaf of sliced bread. I could do a bacon sandwich. I mean - how hard could a sandwich be??
A quick search of the cupboards produced a frying pan and, as I was a smoker back then, I had matches to light the burner. I put the frying pan on the stove, lit it and looked at the bacon. Damn. No instructions. Hell my TV came with instructions. My motorcycle even came with instructions (duh - how hard is it to put a key in an ignition & turn it??). But bacon - this strange deadly substance carried no instructions.
I ripped the packet open with my teeth as I didn't appear to possess scissors and dropped four rashers into the pan, which was by now red-hot. There was a lot of sizzling and spitting and the bacon turned into four sticks of charcoal. Not good.
I decided the pan was too hot so I carried it to the sink and turned on the cold water to cool it down. There was a hell of a lot more sizzling and spitting. I was very glad that I had stopped to put on a robe. I had been naked and it seemed that, if bacon was this dangerous, naked was not a good idea. The pan now being cool I returned to the stove. This time I put the bacon in the pan first then put the pan on the heat.
All this cooking trauma meant I really needed a cigarette. So I went and got one. I leaned back against the stove to enjoy it and took a glance at the morning paper while the bacon cooked. My back started to get a bit warm so I stepped away from the stove. My back stayed warm. There was a sudden scream from the doorway. Damned near gave me heart failure. My companion, having wondered exactly how long it could take to cook breakfast, had come to find me. Then it hit me what she'd said. "You're on fire."
It was true. I was. I ripped the robe off and threw it down. It was nicely ablaze. The flames looked rather pretty against the black tile floor. I stamped on it to try and put out the flames. I wasn't wearing shoes. A fact I remembered three nanoseconds after I burned my foot.
The bacon, left to its own devices had cooked, then burnt and now - reaching combustion point - burst into flames. So did the morning paper which I had dropped near the pan. I grabbed the pan to dump it in the sink. Stupid, stupid. It was, not unexpectedly, too hot to handle - and not in a good way. I dropped it. I probably couldn't have reached the sink with it anyway as I was still hopping round on one foot.
The pan landed in the middle of the merrily blazing robe. So that's what adding fuel to the flames means!! You could have heated the whole house with the fire I now had in the middle of my kitchen floor.
I'd forgotten the newspaper. The curtains hadn't. They were now wreathed in flames too. I couldn't reach them to do anything because the great fire of Canvey was between me and them. And between me and the extinguisher by the door. The blonde was no help. She hadn't stopped screaming. Who needs a damn' smoke alarm when you've got a posh blonde.
The flames had by now spread to the chairs - I knew wicker was a lousy material for kitchen chairs. Two would definitely need replacing. The table would be next. That's if the curtains didn't succeed in setting fire to the ceiling and finishing us all off.
My cousin appeared - she sleeps like the dead but the screaming had finally woken her. She stopped by the door with one of those a-stranger-just-walked-up-and-kit-me-with-a-haddock looks. Well - there was a naked blonde in the doorway screaming and a naked cousin dancing on one foot around a large bonfire in the middle of the kitchen. It must have looked like some strange satanic ritual gone mental.
Even though she was a mere teenager at the time she demonstrated that maturity of purpose that she'd one day channel into a career in public service. She grabbed the extinguisher and sprayed everything in sight. Including me. I was now a foam-bedecked, naked butch. As soon as all the flames were safely doused she dropped the spent cylinder and slid down the wall laughing until she cried.
In an attempt to salvage some of my pride (my dignity was beyond hope) I enquired brightly. "Shall we go out for breakfast instead??"
The blonde grabbed her clothes and left. She didn't even say goodbye. I never saw her again. But me and the kid had a grand breakfast down at 'The Gingham Kitchen'.
Zero
There's not really much I can add to this. Please send Ze your condolences, maniacal laughter, and instructions for cooking bacon. I know, I know she won't eat it but maybe she'll meet that posh blonde again one day and can make it up to her.
Tamara
p.s. Some of you may be aware that Nene Adams and her partner need a little help. You can visit their web site and make a Paypal donation. Also available through this site is a Cafe Press store featuring Corrie Kuipers' work. Do yourself a favor and browse the Corrieweb Store: www.cafepress.com/corriewebstore/. You might find something you like and it's another way to help out Nene and Corrie.
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- Rhapsodie by Adrienne & Miranda (their web site).
Original - Part 3 of Lost and Found by Xena's Girl (Academy of Bards).
West Wing - Ancient Secret Service Tricks... by ncruuk (Fluff!).
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