Navajo fry bread.

 

 

It's probably a good thing:

that I don't know how to "fry" things.

A testimony to the excellent upbringing I had,

where:  if it didn't come in a box labeled "Helper,"

It was just never served.

 

The second-last week of our

"Adventures in US History"

and we are called to pretend to be Navajo's

and make up this easy, 5 ingredient thing called:

Navajo Fry Bread.

 

The kids get all sticky,

I get all sticky,

and I am determined that this is gonna be super awesome.

And it was.

 

The boys asked for triple helpings.

And then some.

 

And then it was time for me to clean up the kitchen.

Now, please have a little sense of humor and cut me a little slack here.

It was the end of a REALLY long day, and I went straight

into "cleanup mode autopilot."

I grabbed the pan of hot-frying oil,

one inch deep hot oil...

and I thought to myself,

"I really need to get the oil outta here so I can get this cleaned

and put away for the night."

 

I then remembered that my grandmother used to pour hot oil

into a little container.

So I pulled a half n half container out of the recycling bin,

opened up the top really wide....

and prepared to pour.

 

My tired brain stopped me.

I cannot pour this oil--it's going to slop all over the sink

if I just up and pour willy nilly.

So I instead grab a ceramic bowl.

A ceramic bowl with a little pour spout.

Perfect.

As I am about to pour, something inside me begins to wonder...

just how HOT do I think this oil still is....

is it going to damage this ceramic bowl?...

oh well, what's the worst that can happen....

And by this time I am already pouring.

Hot, sizzling oil.

Into this precious little ceramic bowl.

And the bowl begins to sizzle and  TERRIFYING noises erupt,
LOUD noises--

and I yell to the boys who are snacking on their fry bread just a few feet away:
 

"RUN!"
 

I grab them and grab the high chair and

I'm pulling kids and pushing them fast into the living room.

Kids covered in sugary fry bread and pizza hands from supper.

One of the kids smiles and yells,

"incoming...!"

They are looking at me, and I am totally clueless.

They are safe on the other side of the wall and the sizzling continues...

we are all listening.

and I am wondering if this--if this is how this little house will end.

"In flames, after a homeschool experiment recipe (!) gone awry."

I stand there with the boys, waiting.

I am seriously expecting the bowl to just start exploding all over the place.

I am picturing Thanksgiving fry turkey fires...

and wondering if this whole oil/ceramic mixture

is meant to just KABOOOOOM!

That MUST be how oil fires start?

Curiosity is my middle name...

 

I venture back to the sizzling sink...

 

I peek to see a bowl with hot oil sizzling in it...

a bowl that is still in tact.

and I realize that we are all going to be okay.

That we are all okay,

and that the house is still standing.

And I begin to laugh.

 

I begin to LAUGH like a little girl ~

straight from the gut.

Hysterically.

Earlier I had posted a story about the mess of the house,

and how sometimes it's tempting to push all the mess out the back

door and start a bonfire.

Who woulda thought I almost started a bonfire in my sink?

The laughter began to peel out of me,

and the boys laughed, too.

We were all just rolling, doubled over in laughter.

Joy.

And I find it ironic that after a stressful day full of the mess

of motherhood,

that THIS, ~This~ is how my Saviour allowed me to end my day.

My mind earlier, talking of pushing the mess outside and just roasting

marshmallows over it,

and my day ending in crazy rolling laughter that the mess is all safe.

That I DIDN'T start it on fire!

My Lord certainly has a sense of humor.

Me at the brink of explosions,

realizing that all that noise was simply hot-oil-poured-into-a-room-temp-dish.

The laughter must have brought my tired mind back to reality.

Back to scientific explanations.

And I remembered that grandma used to use a TIN can for her hot oil.

Funny how that came to mind so easily,

effortlessly,

after my mind was allowed some deep, pure laughter.

Oh, Grandma, if only you could hear this one.

 

I can just see this story, handed down to my grandchildren someday:

"the day that mom told us to take cover during supper."