Brownie Explosion

Something weird—and totally awesome in a “science is cool” kind of way—happened tonight.

Kitty Daddy and I had thrown some veggies and pork chops in the slow-cooker earlier in the day. As dinner time approached, the need for mashed potatoes became evident.

We waited until the last minute leapt into action, peeling and cutting potatoes. Soon, a kettle of spuds with water was on the stove.

KD went upstairs to check football scores, and I ran across the street to gift the neighbors a half-pan of Ghirardelli brownies. You know, because if brownies are here, they will be eaten. Sort of like the way you'll spend what you make, increasing spending as income increases—if a double pan of brownies are present, a double pan of brownies will be consumed.

A few minutes later, I returned and went immediately to work on cleaning the dining room table of the flotsam and jetsam it had become home to over the past week. or two.

A few minutes pass and I go into the kitchen to throw some garbage. As I exit, I realize that it smells like brownies. Four hours after the brownies were done. Well now, that's weird.

Approaching the stove to inspect the source of the smell and check on the potatoes, I discover that we had left the brownies in their glass baking pan on the front burner and it, rather than the back burner with the potato pan, had been turned on high.

Holy. CRAP!

I hollered for Kitty Daddy and grabbed the glass pan, which immediately brought me to my senses. Caliente! Quickly donning a hot pad, I managed to fight the urge to plunge the searing-hot glass into dishwater and instead relocated it to a cool, empty burner on the stove.

Crisis seemingly averted. We breathed a collective sigh of relief.

The air acrid with blackened glass and even blacker brownies, we start to find humor in the situation. It's what we do, it's how we cope.

And then the popping started.

Deep tones, coming from inside the glass pan.

Holy. CRAP. Squared.

"Everybody out!" I yell, waiving my arms at Amos and Bob, herding them away from the popping. Amos, of course, figured the popping to be something he MUST inspect. That one, of course, had to be physically removed to a different room and then shown something interesting to keep him there.

I wish I had the right word to share. Something to impart exactly the right tone and length of KARACKAWOOMPF that comprised the sound we heard. I suppose I was so impressed with it because I've never heard anything quite like it before. Sure, I've broken my share of glasses and crockery, but this was probably the thickest measuring glass I'd heard break yet.

Learn from our error, gang: when something says, "no stovetop" on the bottom? They're not kidding.

I'm off to shop for a new square glass pan.