I’m lucky to be alive for a number of reasons, but the fact I survived “The Potato Fire of ’86” is a miracle.
I had been kicked to the curb by the first of many Kims, so I was staying at a friend’s apartment in Kingston, PA. He was shacking up at his girlfriend’s place, but kept his crappy, barely furnished apartment, just in case things soured in paradise. I had been nursing my broken heart by staying out late and having a few beers, so after getting back to my new digs, I was tipsy and starving.
What’s there to eat? It’s 3 a.m., everything’s closed within safe drunk driving distance, and the frig is bare, except for some butter and soon to curdled chocolate milk. I’m no cook, but what the hell, what’s in the cupboard? I found a bottle of soy sauce, rice, ketchup packets, sugar, salt and pepper shakers, couscous, Fleishmann’s vodka, and 3 old potatoes with the eyes hanging out like a Tim Burton puppet. I know what will work, I can cook these potatoes. Yeah, I got butter and salt and pepper, that’ll do. But first, since we’re improvising, the chef needs a little libation, so I’m going to make myself a Chodka, which is 3/4 of a glass of old chocolate milk and 2 shots of cheap vodka. You know it’s not bad, much better than the Gatorum I had, last week.
Ok, let’s do this. I can’t bake these spuds, because that’ll take too long, but I know, I’ll boil them. I’ll make mashed potatoes, or rather, since the cook is impaired, smashed potatoes. Ha! I kill me. Where’s a pot? There’s a pot. Is it clean? No. Who cares. Put it on the stove, fill it with water, turn the burner to high, take a sip of Chodka, trim the potatoes, shave the potatoes, get a bandaid, put it on the wound, more Chodka, put potatoes in the pot, and wait.
It dawns on me, that while I’m waiting for the potatoes to boil, playing my guitar, drunk, I’m quite the Irish stereotype. Just put a shillelagh in my hand and I’m ready for the St. Paddy’s Day Parade. I’m also very tired, but there’s no couch or even a chair. There’s a mattress on the floor, a yellowed pillow, and a Spider-Man blanket. That’s it. I miss my girlfriend; she could have comforted me in my time of need, whipped me up something. Maybe I shouldn’t have kissed Shelly, her office mate, at the New Year’s Eve party a week ago, but that’s another story. Well, I’m going to lay down for a couple of minutes while my McTaters are cooking. Ahh, this sucks… zzz.
I woke up to thick smoke and two Kingston fireman dragging me out of the apartment complex, asking me why I didn’t hear the smoke alarm, with all of the scowl-faced residents in bathrobes on the street shivering in the January cold. I told them I was cooking and fell asleep, which is, for the most part true, but they were looking at me like a junky with a lit cigarette. Holy shite, I could’ve killed someone with my little home cooking show, “PlasteredChef”.
Apparently, after I passed out, the water had cooked off, leaving the 3 potatoes in a bare pot, red from the heat and shaking violently. The vibration had ironically caused an old cookbook on the back of the stove to fall in to the pot, causing the fire. All that was left of the cookbook was a recipe for mashed potatoes (kidding).
Thankfully, no one was hurt and the firefighters got there in time. “The Potatoe Fire of ’86” was the reason I stopped cooking and turned to microwaving for all my late-night hunger pangs, till “The Egg Explosion of ’91”. (Don’t ask, but when microwaving something for 3 minutes, make sure it’s not mistakenly set for 30 minutes)
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