I was uncertain, though there was plenty to be certain about.
I looked around the kitchen, and pondered if its appearance resembled a room where a series of live hand grenades exploded in a redecorating effort. Or if it more resembled a painting by Salvador Dali, or Pablo Picasso.
I was certain the wife was gonna be pissed off. Hell, I was certain pissed off wasn’t nearly descriptive enough. Incensed? Outraged? Nope. I couldn’t think of anything descriptive enough.
I looked at the remains of the range, wondering what I’d done wrong. I’d followed the instructions in the cookbook. I even made a copy of the steps, and checked them off as I’d gone down the list. I’d read each step three times before I’d implemented it.
I stared at the bits of chicken stuck to the remaining bits of ceiling and walls, as I considered how well-engineered the house was. I’d never have expected drywall, fiberglass insulation, little bits of wire, and a bunch of two by fours to hold up to that kind of destructive force.
The firemen had all patted me on the shoulder as they left. Some laughed hysterically. Some just shook their heads. “You married?” I’d answered yes.
I was uncertain where I’d be sleeping that night. I was certain it would not be in my bed, or even in the house. She might let me sleep in the car. If I was lucky. I wondered if I should take my tent, and sleeping bag, and flee.
I was certain I’d tried. She’d asked me to try. “Cook something special for dinner.” That’s what she said. “There’s chicken breasts in the ‘fridge.” I’d found the recipe on the ‘Net. How to cook chicken and rice in the pressure cooker.
I was certain I’d followed the instructions.
I was clueless why the damn thing said, “BOOM!”, shook the entire house, and decided to redesign the kitchen. Although it was interesting to see the shards of pressure cooker embedded in the refrigerator. They looked like a word of abstract art, like you see on city streets these days. Where you wonder what drugs the artist was taking.
The firemen said it wasn’t my fault. The pressure release valve on the cooker had failed, and the unit had over-pressurized. They said the homeowners insurance would cover it. They wished me luck dealing with her when she got home.
I told them, “No pressure cooker is ever getting within 100 yards of my home again.”
After they left, I stood in the remains of the kitchen, staring at my cell phone. I was certain I should call her.
I was certain I didn’t want to.