Luckily with two doors wide open, some rapidly well-placed fans, and a strategically waved bath towel, we manage to avoid setting off the wired-in alarms, which blare like air raid sirens when activated. The house, however, still stinks.
Honestly, he hasn't done anything wrong. He mixes up some scrambled eggs, gets out the correct pan, and heats everything up, just like he does at school. But when he adds some butter to the pan, he damn-near sets himself on fire. The stove at school is electric; the stove here at home is gas. The difference is that there is no slow heat build-up to a gas stove -- it is almost instantaneously up to temp.
Voila! Smoke show.
Truly, he is correct about the cooking temperature.
The difference is that I started the flame lower and also added the oleo early on, two mistakes he never makes at school since it takes forever and a day to heat up the electrical elements on his dorm stove.
The house still has a slight haze, and the wafting stench of burned butter hangs in the air, but at least we are not smelling burned clothes stuck to young flesh. Crisis averted; cooking lesson learned. Everyone survives and the eggs smell and look delicious (son assures me they are). He even added his own flair to them (some cinnamon).
Small price to pay for a valuable lesson for him, and for mom to see that the kid is going to be all right after all, at least once he gets the hang of the kitchen appliances. Next time we might stick to baking, though, since he makes a mean chocolate chip cookie.
