Today I had something of a cooking fiasco.  I was making a chocolate cake from a box.  I have made tons of boxed cake mixes before in this same pan (but, I admit, never this flavor) and not had this problem: the pan overflowed.

You know how these things start.  You're sitting in the living room, watching TV and playing on the computer, when suddenly, your brows furrow.  You sniff the air.  "Honey, do you smell something burning?"  Incidentally, the smoke off charred chocolate cake batter is pretty gross-smelling.

So I dashed into the kitchen to find my cake bubbling out of the pan and down onto the burners in the oven.  My first thought was "Shit," which I said out loud.  As in, shit, what a mess; or shit, my cake.  This is, apparently, the magic word that turns DH, who had been on the couch bothering the cat, into a knight in shining armor, and summons him to my aid.  "Fire hazard" was a distant second thought, but it did eventually occur to me.

I turned off the oven and took out the cake pan while Mr. Knight is opening windows.  Then we had to figure out what to do.  The cake was salvageable (i.e. didn't taste like smoke), but I couldn't put it back in the oven without either stinking and smoking up the whole apartment, or setting it on fire, or both.  DH looked into the oven and said, "Well, if we can just get out the stuff that fell..."

He grabbed a cleaver and proceeded to chase chocolate cake chunks around the back of the oven door, while I, armed with a butterknife, formed the blockade to his roundup.  But what to do for the stuff in the middle of the oven?  "If only we had something longer," he said.  He threw some things around in a drawer; I went through my mental inventory of the kitchen, trying to think what was longest.  When I looked up, he had disappeared into the bedroom.

In half a second I knew what he was doing.  See, he collects swords and knives.  Or rather, he has a collection of them; it's not something he pursues all that actively.  He's got maybe a half-dozen or so, mostly decorative.  So he came back out - sching! - sword in hand.  I just laughed, and laughed and laughed.

A sword, in my kitchen!  Well, why not? It made perfect sense and it got the job done.  But just the image of my husband in his boxers, poking a sword into our oven, in our tiny little kitchen, to retrieve burnt chocolate cake...how is that not funny??  It was one of those perfect "us" moments.  Humorous, practical, totally relaxed, just getting through one of life's little bumps together.

When all was said and done, he said, "Can you get me a paper towel?  *serious Commander-Worf voice*  I must clean the blood of my enemies."

I love the way he makes me laugh!