I intended to make chili for dinner this afternoon and soaked the beans overnight. This morning I put the beans on to boil, just to get them started, knowing they wouldn’t be done before time to leave for church.
Then I got busy with last minute notes for my Sunday School lesson (which went well, thank you very much) and forgot to turn off the pot before I left for church.
I didn’t think of it again until the opening prayer of our third-hour Sacrament meeting. As soon as I could, I whispered to my neighbor that I had left a boiling pot at home, and she and I rushed out of the second row pew just as the Sacrament song was starting.
That was the longest three-minute ride I’ve ever had. At the very least, my good pot was destroyed, everything stank of burned beans, the smoke detectors were shrieking, and a neighbor had had to call the landlord to bring his keys and take care of things. At the very worst, the building had burned down.
Everything seemed calm as I jumped out of the car and flew up the steps. There was no smoke, no burnt smell. My cat blinked up at me from his basket on the desk, serene as ever.
And that’s when I discovered that the pot was stone cold, because yesterday when I pulled the vacuum cleaner too far into the bedroom I also pulled the stove’s plug just far enough out of the wall that the burner had never come on.
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