My Pride went up in Flames

The same day I told them that I was a chef, I burned the plastic off the bottom of a microwave pot. It was my worse fear, apart from actually burning the house down: destroying the property of those who welcomed me into their home. It was pure mortification. I felt like I must come across as a spoiled girl who didn’t know how to cook. Realistically, the inside had been metal. I hadn’t thought to look at the bottom, and somehow the fact that the sides were plastic didn’t register.

As I filled up the water bottle again, I heard crackling, and I was pleased that the water was boiling so fast. And then I smelled it, and looked over, and the flames beneath the pot were bigger than they had been. I lifted the pot and saw that those flames stuck. I didn’t really know what to do. I tried to dab them out in the full sink (one of the pots inside had water in it), and then finally switched on the faucet and ran it over peeled, rolled, and burnt plastic.

I scribbled a hasty note on my way out and placed it on top, no longer in search of coffee. After that, with a few laughs, I was told to use the microwave to heat the water. How embarrassing.

I was some chef, indeed. 

Me with Mrs. Puthela, the nice lady who came home to a gooey pot in her kitchen, and had the decency to laugh it off and serve me my chipatis in it later.