They're GRRRR--oh, excuse me, coming through.

I thought Mike had passed out in the kitchen.  When I walked in the door last night, our apartment was filled with smoke.  A LOT of it.  From my angle at the front door, all I saw was the skillet with four-foot flames flying from it.

"Mike?!"  His head popped into view from around the corner.

"The recipe said that there might be some smoke," he said like he'd been practicing the line for this very moment since he'd started.

A few minutes later, we sat down to a candlelit dinner.  We poured some rice onto our plates, and Mike proudly set an Omaha Steak on each of our plates.  We ooh'd and aah'd appropriately, prayed, and started sawing into it.

The first bite was pretty charred, I'll admit.  But the poor boy has sat through endless meals of mine that certainly had room for improvement, to say the least.  So I sawed and chewed and sipped my water as subtly as possible.  I tried to shoot sidelong glances Mike's way to get his reaction, and he looked fairly concerned.

"You don't have to finish it," he said.  "I tried making up my own recipe..."

We laughed about it.  For a while.

When I came home later that night from another nanny errand, the entire apartment was lit up with candles and a hot bath was waiting.  (We have very little hot water, so Mike takes the time to heat up extra boiling water in our kettle and pot!)  The candles were most likely to rid the apartment of the smell of 'acid and burning,' as Mike put it, but it was lovely nonetheless.  I relaxed in the tub and Mike played computer games.  Ah, the post-honeymoon phase...

As I dragged my exhausted self towards bed, Mike mentioned he wasn't feeling well.  "I'm sorry, honey," I mumbled as I passed out.  I woke up about an hour later.  Huh, I don't feel that well either...

Thus began my long night of praying for Jesus to take me home as I cooled my burning forehead on the cool toilet seat.  Mike's wasn't much better.  We shivered in bed, mostly from the sickness but also because we had fans going to get rid of the smell of burning flesh.

This morning, we were exhausted, but cheerful.  I opened the new box of Frosted Flakes and munched away at the table while Mike got out a bowl.

"Um, did you open the Frosted Flakes box?" he asked.

"Yes."  Munch munch.

"But you opened the Crispix yesterday."

"Yes."  Munch munch munch.

"You are eight.  You know that, right?"

I grinned and scooped more Frosted Flakes into my mouth as childishly as I could.  Mike rolled his eyes, and this is an exchange we are familiar with.  I got up and put my bowl in the sink and spun around with my nose wafting over the skillet still covered in black coal and baking soda and certain death.  Uh oh.

As I brushed my teeth for the second time this morning, I pressed my fingers to my pale, clammy cheek and thought about the candlelit dinner and the bath and the husband who pretends to not mind my childish habits, and I realized I'm pretty lucky.