After about 15 minutes I smelled burning plastic. I went into the kitchen expecting to find a melted spatula on the stove-top, but instead I found black smoke billowing out of the range. Disregarding everything I learned from the movie Backdraft, I opened the oven door, feeding the perfect gulp of oxygen to the fire that was raging inside.
What happened next occurred so quickly that my memory is a bit hit and miss.
Version 1: The fireball was sufficient enough to singe my eyebrows off and immediately engulfed the kitchen wall. At that point, it must have found some susceptible (and unsafe) wiring, as it proceeded to rip through to the living room, where the kids were peacefully watching the movie. The couch was the first to burst into flames, followed by the area rug and coat tree. I grabbed all of the kids in one fell swoop, just as the ceiling was falling in. I kicked open the front door and jumped through the flames, face covered in soot, sweat, and two angel tears. The kids were crying and clutching my neck. Now when people ask them what they want to be when they grow up, they respond, "Our Dad."
Version 2: I closed the oven door immediately, then thought to myself, "If the kitchen goes up in flames, what do I grab first?" The answer came immediately and emphatically: the blender. I fought the urge to grab the blender and instead ran upstairs to yell at Lori (who was in the shower), asking her where I could find the fire extinguisher. She responded with an "in the closet" that contained both information and judgment ("It's in the closet. What completely inane thing are you going to show the kids with the fire extinguisher."). Sensing her suspicion, I mentioned that the kitchen was on fire and that she might want to call the fire department. I really just wanted to see her run naked through our neighborhood. However, her hair was dry and make up was perfectly applied by the time the firetrucks arrived. All eight of them. (Lori insists that she still had conditioner in her hair and scrub on her face when she exited the house. Details.)
When the first firefighter popped out of his truck with an axe and about 78 pounds of gear, I knew he'd be greatly disappointed. We were sitting in our neighbor's driveway at this point. Before entering our house with hoses blasting, I told him that I was quite sure the fire had been successfully contained and eliminated (that's fire people speak). He confirmed my pyro prowess, then proceeded to break a lamp and book end, just to feel like a contribution had been made.
This all happened at about 6 pm on a Friday. At about 2 pm on Friday Ava had placed a Barbie in the stove. That Barbie, cooked at 450 degrees Fahrenheit, became * barbie-cued into a billion pieces covering almost every visible inch of our downstairs. The settlement came in from the insurance company today: after all was said and done, content damage (from smoke and soot) was $2154 and the ServPro cleaning bill came in at just over $7k. That's a lot of crab cakes.
The night of the fire as we were driving over to Cory and Mel's house--where we stayed during the four day cleaning--Zoe commented that, "the house will be really clean after the cleaners." Yes, that's right. What else, kids!? Brennan offered that, "maybe my legos will be ruined and I can get some money to buy something else." Ok. That's positive, I suppose. We're also getting a new stove out of the deal, our house is ridiculously clean, apparently I'm installing a new floor in our kitchen next week, all of our ducts have been meticulously flushed, and we're getting new skillets!
And my blender's fine. Thank you for the concern.
* thanks Mel.
