Thursday, January 27, 2011

Never say "no drama" - Part Two

(Because the Internet is working again. For now at least.)

Picking up where I left off yesterday:

The time that the oven was preheating to bake the khachapuri seemed like an appropriate time to use the oven's heat to reheat the chakhohbili. It had been made in a large, red, enameled cast iron Lodge Logic Dutch oven. Laden with chicken and tomato-wine sauce and rice, it was quite heavy. I pulled it out of the fridge without incident and placed it on the oven rack, which I had slid out of the oven and toward me only about an inch. That inch was enough. Without the full support of the oven's walls, the rack could not support the heavy, chicken-laden Dutch oven for long. When I turned around to attend to something else, probably to change the song on my music player, I heard a CRASH!!!!!!

When I turned back to the oven, the following sight greeted me.

From Big-Haired Jersey Girl

What do you mean, "What is that?"

Clearly, that's the rack in my oven tipped over, with the bottom of my red Dutch oven facing me and the lid pushed off. As in the picture, in real life, the chicken and rice and their whereabouts were hidden by the pot and the lid and the rack. Cautiously, I approached the oven, oven mitts at the ready, and with relief saw that most of our dinner remained in the pot; only a few chunks of rice and chicken stew had fallen onto the oven. We still had dinner and I didn't have a mess to clean up. At this point, I'd had an evening full of things falling off of shelves and things spilling, so I just laughed. I moved the Dutch oven to the stovetop, a wiser place to reheat dinner.

I put the khachapuri in the oven. All looked as it should; everything was steady and everything was heating, but not burning. After a few minutes, however, I heard another CRASH! from within the oven.

What could that possibly be?! I thought. Cautiously, I opened the oven. The following sight greeted me.

From Big-Haired Jersey Girl

Not much amiss there. I puzzled over the source of the loud noise. The chicken stew was calmly seated on the stovetop, warming. The khachapuri was turning golden brown in the oven. It had not shifted from its pan, and the rack seemed to be holding still. Then I noticed the object sitting on the bottom of the oven. My oven thermometer, my stupid stupid oven thermometer, which is designed to be so top-heavy it won't sit steadily on a shelf but the hook for hanging it on racks is angled so that it doesn't easily hang in place, had fallen and crashed, landing face first on the bottom of the oven. Its glass face had cracked. The metal hook of the thermometer is made of the kind of metal that doesn't stay hot, so that even if it's been in a hot oven, you can grab it to move it without wearing mitts and without burning your hand. I assumed this was the case for the bottom of the thermometer.

It was not.

And that was how, ten minutes later, when my boyfriend arrived at my apartment for dinner, I greeted him at the door looking like this:

From Big-Haired Jersey Girl

I burned the tips of my right thumb and forefinger so badly that I had to keep my hand wrapped around an icepack the entire night. After that happened, I decided I deserved lots and lots of wine.

The khachapuri, I'm happy to report, looked like this:

From Drop Box

Filled with delicious melty cheese!

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