It's Not a Party Until the Firemen Show Up

I graduated from law school about 2 and a half years ago. Some of the best friends I have ever had, and dare say any person could have, graced the halls of Baylor Law School from 1999 until 2002. Since such friends are, needless to say, invaluable, I try to find ways to stay in touch with them. This holiday season, I thought it would be nice to host a "girls only" Friday night dinner party for a dozen of my closest law school friends.

I planned the party very carefully in my mind... crackers and luxurious cheeses to start; cranberry glazed chicken, potato casserole, and green beans for the meal; and a turtle cheesecake for desert. There would be wine, egg nog, and a festive peppermint martini. I did all the shopping, cleaned my apartment (no small task), had the potatoes in the oven, and had chilled the egg nog by the time my law school roommate showed up. The cranberry glazed chicken is her recipe, so she was gracious enough to come over an hour early and help me prepare the main course. I had marinated the chicken that morning, so all that was needed to start the chicken was a sesame oil and brown sugar glaze that was to be prepared stove top.

Just as we dumped 6 tablespoons of brown sugar into the skillet, there was a knock at my door. It was another guest ready to help with preparations and begin enjoying a holiday beverage. Just as I turned back to the stove, I realized my error. Brown sugar melts very quickly, then burns, and then produces an exorbitant amount of smoke... burned sugar smelling smoke that has hints of creme brule gone very wrong. We immediately took the sugar off of the burner and began to fan away the smoke and open the door to my patio. I opened my front door to allow for some air flow... another error. At this point I realize that my entire apartment is full of burnt sugar smoke and that the tainted air is flowing into the hall of my apartment complex.

My fire alarm begins to sound at an alarming intensity and I, along with my two friends, work frantically to wave air away from the alarm and try and disconnect it. This quickly became the least of my concerns, as a louder and more frantic-sounding alarm began to sound down the halls of my apartment complex. Fire doors slammed shut, the elevator stopped in its tracks, and strobe lights bounced off my neighbors' doors. I ran to the patio and called my leasing office to ask them to turn off the alarm just as I heard fire trucks screaming down the street. Within minutes two fire trucks, including one with a ladder that would have surely thrilled any four year old boy, appeared in my court yard. I leaned over my balcony railing and screamed "Excuse me, sir, there isn't a fire."

Almost immediately there was loud knocking on my door. I flung the door open to find myself looking at an axe. My eyes followed the weapon to the gloved hand that held it and then up to the gas mask (with oxygen tank attached), small brown eyes peaking through smudged glass, and a helmet. The nice public servant at my door asked if I was in any danger, to which I simply replied "I can't cook." I explained that we were glazing chicken (a detail I'm sure they did not care a bit about) and that it began smoking and got out of hand. I promised that everything was under control and that I did not need assistance but appreciated their prompt response and obvious readiness. Please keep in mind that all this is being screamed, as there is still an obnoxiously loud siren and strobe light bouncing off my walls. I was starting to wonder if the dozens of candles blazing on my mantle and various tables was somehow a bad idea for someone who can't melt sugar. The nice firemen, who now numbered three in my living room, couldn't help but chuckle at my failed attempt to emulate Martha Stewart. They declined an offer to stay for chicken (which I promised to bake safely in the oven in order to avoid further problems).

My next guests arrived just as the firetrucks and men with axes pulled out of my courtyard. One of my friends immediately launched into a story about how they had seen firetrucks leaving my complex, but was distracted by the smell of burnt sugar and sooty footprints in my entrance hall. It really isn't a party until the firemen show up.