“Daddy? My bagel is cooking too long.”

This is now on the list of the worst ways to be awoken in the morning. Saturday morning. 7:25 I think the clock said as I flew out of bed.

C had woken earlier and gone downstairs. Apparently, he got hungry and decided to warm up a bagel in the microwave. He’s watched me do it countless time and tried to set it for a few seconds, just to warm it up.

When I got downstairs the timer read 8 minutes and some seconds. The kitchen was full of smoke and I was stabbing at the reset button to get the stupid machine to stop. By now the smoke detector is wailing and C and M are jumping around yelling “fire!”

I was able to get the windows open and the fan above the stove blowing before I thought to open the microwave. A thick cloud of cinnamon raisin flambé smoke poured into my face. The “bagel” was now reminiscent of a bubbling, smoking, little chocolate donut.

The fans were set up, the dog let out and a very serious conversation about touching the microwave was had while sitting in the dog’s bed.

C was once enamored with the Welsh claymation show, Fireman Sam. At night, he would ask me to tell him a “Fireman Sam story.” During the course of imagining up these stories, I created a family named the Joneses. Mr. Jones spent his days thinking up new and interesting ways of ending up lighting things on fire and needing to call Fireman Sam to save him, his house and family. 911 would be called, Fireman Sam would slide down the fire pole, suit up and drive to the Jones family home to put out the fire and save the day, Mr. Jones’ hero. During my explanation of why we don’t touch the microwave without a grown-up, I told C he was like Mr. Jones. Realization shown in his eyes and he threw his arms around me.

So, our first close call has happened. The house reeks of burned bagel, Febreeze and pomegranate oil. A new microwave has been purchased (the other being a lost cause). Thankfully, no flames were involved and a bad smell in the kitchen is the worst we have.