I don’t remember the subject of the argument, I just remember I was definitely right and he was definitely wrong.  And, I told so him as I lay green beans on a metal steamer in a pot, forgot to add water, then placed the pan over high heat on the stovetop.

After a few futile minutes of conversation, I hung up. I miss the days when you could actually slam down a receiver.  Instead, I vigorously poked the “END” button on my cell phone.  But, it just wasn’t the same.

So, I channeled that negative energy into salad-making, wielding my large, sharp butcher’s knife to chop, well to be honest, more like mutilate carrots, cucumbers, and lettuce.  I could feel those happy, little endorphins streaming back to relieve my cranky psyche.

A few minutes later, my husband, Bruce, staggered in through the kitchen door, bleary-eyed and crying-tired from a twelve-hour day at the hospital.  He is a steady, quiet man, not given to quick moves or loud utterances.  There’s not a histrionic bone in his body. Think Star Trek’s Mister Spock without the pointy ears. So, when he let out a shrill scream, I paid attention and glanced up from my salad massacre.

He yelled a scatological term rhyming with “fit” as he pointed to our stove. My stainless steel Foxgang Puck pot appeared blue.  And, the range top was covered with what resembled huge blobs of mercury. My brain did not comprehend what my eyes were taking in.  Mercury?  I didn’t even own a cooking thermometer….what could it be?

Next, my husband committed a critical error in judgment by picking up the blue-hot Foxgang Puck pot. He intended to carry it out of the house.  But the bottom of the pan separated from the pot, dropping to the floor, instantly starting a twenty- inch diameter fire in its impression.  Worse yet, the molten middle layer of the pot, which had been sandwiched between the layers of aluminum, splashed to the ground, forming at least forty little balls of gleaming hot metal that rolled fifteen feet in each direction, instantly setting about forty mini-fires throughout the kitchen and dining room.  Within a minute or so, the flames leapt six inches high, starting up the walls and cabinets.  As the linoleum burned, thick black smoke filled the house.

Cassie, my intelligence-impaired golden retriever, chased the balls, attempting to get one into her mouth. Eric, my judgment-impaired middle son, ran out to the front lawn and called not the fire department, but instead, his older brother, to tell him about the spectacular fire I started.

My asthmatic lungs could not bear the noxious smoke, so I grabbed my youngest son with one hand and the dumb dog with the other, heading to where I hoped the door was.  As I did so, I yelled for our fifteen-year-old, houseguest, David, telling him to follow us out.

Bruce stayed in the kitchen, battled the flames and ultimately put out the fire, but not before much of the kitchen and dining area were damaged.  Later, when we gathered under our Chinese cherry tree out front, counting heads and counting blessings because all heads were accounted for, we had a Guidepost moment.  You know those Guidepost stories, the ones about inspirational, but inexplicable miraculous events?  Bruce thanked me for having had the foresight to hand him a full watering can with which he ran from fire to fire, dousing the flames.

I, of course, hadn’t handed him a thing.  I’d jumped ship, had done nothing other than to stumble out into safety, dragging offspring and a pet with me. Who gave Bruce the full watering can?  To this day, that mystery remains unsolved.

When we called the Foxgang Puck folks and described the fire, their public relations rep told us to go ahead with repairs. She assured us, “Don’t worry.  We’ll do right by you.” Unfortunately, falser words were never spoken.

Several thousand dollars later, after completing the renovation of our kitchen, we phoned the Foxgang Puck representative who had so glibly reassured us.  Our call was shunted from the public relations department to the legal department.  A lawyer stated they’d happily send us $750, if we’d sign a statement saying we’d never speak about the incident again.  Well, we refused the offer, thought about suing them, but decided we didn’t have the energy.  Instead, we reported the pan to Consumer Product Safety Commission who promised to investigate what seemed to be a design flaw. Pans should not melt so quickly.

So, years later we are still enjoying the remodeled kitchen.  I’ve switched to using cast iron pots.  And, although we never took a penny from the pan company, to this day, we gain great satisfaction (albeit sophomoric) by referring to them as the Foxgang Puck Schmucks.

(Foxgang Puck not the real name, but you get the idea.)