When you were a kid and your parents told you, “Don’t touch, it’s hot,” you did one of three things. You believed them and didn’t touch; you learned by watching one of your siblings touch the stove and get burned; or you touched it yourself and learned the hard way.
I’m pretty sure that as a kid, I just believed my parents.
As an adult, I decided to learn the hard way and touched the hot stove last night.
We made a MESS in the kitchen. I realize now that I forgot to check the ceiling to see if we got flour up there, but I wiped some off of the fridge, swept up and mopped the flour on the floor (I know Mom and James can’t think I can mop, but whatever… I swiffered), and Nathan cleaned up all of the flour on the mixer and counter. We had dirty dishes all over, sauce splashed on the stove, and even bits of mashed dough on the floor.
But let me tell you, it was a mighty delicious dinner of homemade roasted red pepper ravioli.
In the process of cleaning up, I wanted to move the cutting board from the counter to sit on the stove so I had some more space to put drying dishes. So I thought I’d double check that the stove was turned off and cooled down.
Okay, correction: I thought I’d double check that the stove was cool enough.
I assumed we’d already turned off all of the burners.
Poor assumption on my part.
Let me simply remind you, my internet friends, don’t touch a hot stove.
The palm of my hand only has two small burns, but it’s surprising how irritating those can be.
Next time there’s a hot stove, I’ll let somebody ELSE touch it.