The time I set myself on fire. For serious.

It's no secret that I'm not quite the world's greatest chef. Sure, I have my moments of culinary brilliance (aka, I read a recipe and do exactly what they say), but for the most part, I don't spend too much time in the kitchen.

When I am in the kitchen, things usually go fine, save a few minor mishaps like overdoing it on the salt, or forgetting an ingredient or two.

But this week? I reached a new low. A terrifying, life-threatening, never-go-in-the-kitchen-again low.

I set myself on fire.

Well, my dress, to be specific. My NEW dress.

Let's back up...

This is what my stove looks like:



This is where the spices are:



This is how tall I am:



When you put all of these factors together -- a short chick cooking on a gas stove, realizing she needs the spices that are above it -- you get caught on fire.

In my cute dress, I stepped on my Big Girl Stool, leaned over the flaming stove and started searching around for onion salt.

That's when I started feeling kind of warm near my thighs.

Weird, I thought.

Now, a normal person would have looked down to see what was going on. Not me. I was on a mission to find that stupid spice. So I continued looking while my dress continued flaming.

After another 10 seconds, I started feeling really hot, so I looked down.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I AM ON FIRE!

I. Freaked. Out.

All I could think was "stop, drop and roll." Damn you, third grade! But the last thing I was going to do was roll all over the fire and spread it around my body. So what did I do?

I blew on it.

Yep.

I was standing there in my kitchen with flames growing from the bottom of my dress and I decided to blow on it.

Forget about putting water on it, even though I was standing next to the sink. Ignore the fire extinguisher we keep in the kitchen for these exact moments. Just do the most illogical thing you can think of and hope for the best.

As I was blowing on my dress and trying to awkwardly maneuver my body away from the fire, I saw the kitchen filling with smoke. So, I ran outside. And there I was, standing outside my place with a smaller fire emitting from my crotch area, blowing on it to make it stop. Which it did, eventually. So then I just had to sit outside while the smoke died down. Which it did as well.

And now?



That's my beloved dress. Sad, right?

I think I'm going to use my mad sewing skills to turn it into a tunic because I'll be damned if I only get one wear out of that thing. Fire or not.

And that, my friends, is the story of my first kitchen fire.