It was a Friday afternoon in the middle of January in Upstate New York. I was fourteen years old and a freshman in high school. Ordinarily, I would have been in school that day, but, as fate would have it, there had been a huge snowstorm the night before, and school had been canceled.
So I was home, and bored -- and hungry. All I wanted was some french fries. I had never made them before, but I though I had a pretty good idea of how it was done. So, I gave it a try. I cut up some potatoes, filled up a pot with oil, and put it on the stove. Then, remembering my cousin Julie's wise advice never to leave hot oil unattended, I sat down at the kitchen table to wait for the oil to boil. As you might suspect, I waited a pretty long time.
And I was just about to forget the whole thing when, all of a sudden -- the pot was on fire! And so I thought, "Oh -- a grease fire. Well, now, let's see, how do you put out a grease fire?" I knew that sometime, somewhere I had learned what to do in case of a grease fire, but I was drawing a blank.
All I could remember about fire safety was Stop, Drop, and Roll. This was obviously of little help. So I thought, "Well, I better ask Dad -- he'll know what to do". So I walked into my father's office (where he was working at his computer) and asked him. "Dad," I said casually, "how do you put out a grease fire?" But my father, being an extraordinarily clever and insightful man, was somehow able to sense the underlying reason for my interest in the subject. Or, perhaps it was the smoke alarm that clued him in. "A grease fire!?!?" he shouted and dashed off in the direction of the kitchen. I followed.
When I caught up with him in the kitchen, he was running around flinging open cupboard doors shouting, "Flour! We've gotta find the flour!" Whoa. Dad had obviously forgotten the first rule of fire safety, which was, as I then remembered, "Don't Panic". But despite our efforts, we couldn't find the flour, so Dad moved to Plan B: "We've got to get it out of the house!" he shouted. So he picked up the pot, but immediately dropped it on the floor because, as we soon learned, flaming aluminum pots are extraordinarily hot. So -- Plan C. "Call the fire department!" Dad shouted. So I did.
At this point, my cousin Julie, after listening to the smoke alarm for a good five minutes or so, decided to come downstairs and find out whether or not the house was on fire. I started to explain that it was just a little grease fire and that everything was under control, which was mostly true except for my father -- but then we heard the sirens. Many, many sirens.
We ran to the window and watched as two police cars, one huge fire engine, the fire chief's car, and some kind of fireman van pulled up in front of our house. And then, five firemen, in full gear and armed with five fire extinguishers, came racing up the steps to our house. The way they were acting, I fully expected one of them to bust down the front door with an ax and the rest to come crashing through the windows. But no, they knocked politely. And THEN burst in, shouting "Everybody out of the house!"
So, despite the fact that there was a foot of snow outside and none of us had on any shoes, we ran out and joined the crowd of people that had gathered in front of the house, most of whom I had never seen before in my life.
While we were outside waiting, I explained to Julie and Dad what had happened. "First of all," I said, "I did not the leave the oil unattended. I watched it the whole time, waiting for the oil to boil -- when all of a sudden it just burst into flames!" And Julie said to me, "You were waiting for the oil to boil? Kara, oil doesn't boil. Anybody with half a brain knows that." Well, it was news to me. Apparently, I was absent the day the entire world was blessed with this little bit of wisdom. And as I considered this, a collective gasp arose from the crowd as the poor little pot was flung from the house and came rolling down the driveway.
The firemen then yelled that all was safe, and so we went back inside, to the kitchen, and surveyed the damage. Apparently, somebody had gotten a little carried away with a fire extinguisher. White foam was dripping from everything -- the stove, the cupboards, the clock on the wall, and even my potatoes -- clear on the other side of the kitchen. What exactly went on in there, I guess we'll never know. But my Dad thanked the firemen and as they left, one of them said to us, "You know, you should've just put a lid on it." (He didn't actually SAY "Duh", but we pretty much got the message.)
Later that afternoon, when my Mom came home from work and found me and Julie furiously trying to scrub white foam and black smoke off the wallpaper, she simply said, "That's OK. I wanted to remodel the kitchen anyway." Truly, this was one of the most amazing days of my life.
THE END
Kara Eileen McMahon-Paul is the first child of Maureen and Brian McMahon (Brian is the 7th child of Robert and Mary McMahon). Kara lives in Baton Rouge, LA with her husband Michael. Mike works for Exxon and Kara, having completed her Masters at LSU in May 1997, is completing her internship in Dietetics at Columbia Medical Center in Baton Rouge. Kara and Mike's email address is LenBias@ix.netcom.com.