Drool and Char

One minute I'm asleep, the next minute, the LT is turning on the light beside my bed.

"What time is it?" I asked, completely disoriented. I was having flashbacks to his early mornings, when he got up at 4:30 to be at work by seven, but he's on leave and it's practically the middle of the night, according to outside.

"You don't want to know," he said.

And then I remembered, all at once, an onslaught of badness: Me cooking yesterday, me carefully frying bacon and roasting spaghetti squash and beating eggs, mixing the whole thing together and baking it in the oven like a fritatta, LT and I going out to dinner, LT and I coming home and falling asleep--for just half an hour--

I flew out of bed and checked the oven. The light was still on in the kitchen, but the oven was off; the LT must have had the same thought right before I did. I opened the door, hoping against hope.

I was greeted by black crud, blacker than night, barely showing up against the black cast iron pot. All my effort and ingredients, wasted because I didn't think to set an alarm.

I pulled the blackened and dessicated mess out of the oven, turned off all the lights, and went back to bed, the LT comforting me. I was more than a little heartbroken about the ruin of my fritatta--all that time and all those ingredients!--and he reassured me that this was not a crisis, I could afford to buy more, thank god it wasn't the only thing I had to eat that week. I agreed.

"And to add insult to injury," he said sleepily, "I've drooled a big puddle on your sheets. Don't roll into it."

"Hey, that'd be a good blog post," I said, equally sleepily. "I woke up in the middle of the night to find that I was lying in drool and my fritatta had burned to a crisp!"

We laughed and went back to sleep.