Coyote's Den

A lot of people who know me have heard this story. But for those who haven't, here it is.

This is the story of the dreaded Wok incident. It is one of the stories that ends in me not having eyebrows, so I like it.

Years ago, in my foolish youth, I got married (to a woman - yes folks, I used to be bi). The marriage had its ups and downs, but I suppose it had more downs, because the marriage only lasted a little under five years. I hasten to assure people that this incident isn't specifically one that I'd cite as a reason for my eventual divorce, but it's possible that it was a contributing factor.

My ex and I had just gotten a house, which we really couldn't afford. We were pretty poor then. But it had two nice features - a decent kitchen, and a converted garage that I could use as an office for my freelance graphics and consulting business.

Well... one day, I'm in my office, when I hear blood-curdling screams coming from the kitchen. I had long ago learned that blood-curdling screams from my ex were not something to waste any time investigating, because often, things like fire, explosions, animal-related incidents, blood, or severe structural damage were involved. Keep in mind, that while my ex-wife did spend a lot of time apparently afraid of stuff, she was not a wilting flower. She didn't even scream the time that the guy tried to mug her in the alley behind our first apartment. She just beat him into a bloody mess, stomped his teeth out after dropping him to the ground, and then quietly came inside and told me that we were moving (that's a whole other story). So... screams were bad.

I run into the kitchen, to see that the little Revere-ware saucepan my grandmother gave me is on the stove, and is filled with flaming oil. There's an eight-inch wide column of flame coming out of it, and bits of burning grease are shooting everywhere.

We had a fire-extinguisher (my mother always had like eight or ten at any given time, and would give them as gifts - she worked in a burn ward for a while) but being such good housekeepers, we had no idea what we'd done with the thing. For all I know, my ex had hot-glued it into one of her arts and crafts projects. Her arts and crafts projects actually did contribute to our eventual divorce, but I digress.

So... we both ran around the kitchen, panicking and shouting obscenities, while we tried to find something big enough to smother the flames before they spread and burned down the house. None of our pots and pans had lids that matched, of course, but we finally found one just big enough for me to clamp over the lid of the saucepan and asphyxiate the fire. It burned all the hair off my hand when I did it, but mostly, no harm done.

She immediately began crying and saying that she was stupid, and that she'd almost burned down the house, and being really down on herself. So, I hugged her, and told her not to feel bad, and that it was all okay. I looked to see how this could have happened, and basically what had gone wrong was that we'd bought safflower oil - at the time, it was the cheapest cooking oil you could get. Unbeknownst to most people, safflower oil will get smoky and ignite at a relatively low temperature. If she'd been using pretty much any other oil at the same heat, there would have been no problem. So... I calmly explained it, and told here there was no way she could have known, and that it wasn't her fault.

Then, to lighten the mood, I laughed and said "Ha ha! It's a good thing you weren't cooking in the wok, huh?"

So... the next day, at around the same time, I'm working in my office, when I hear bloodcurdling screams coming from the kitchen. I go running into the kitchen to see, not just a little saucepan with a piddly amount of fire coming out of it, but... you guessed it.

The wok - with a column of flame two feet wide and six feet tall coming out of it. By the time I got in there, the cabinets and hood over the stove were already turning black, and there were little puddles of spattered, burning grease all over the counters and floor.

We still hadn't found the damn fire extinguisher (yes... I was really stupid in my youth. With the number of fire-related incidents involving my ex-wife, I should have kept one strapped to my belt in a quick-release holster.)

So, we again ran around the kitchen screaming even more obscenities, in more of a panic, trying to find the wok-lid - which was the only thing big enough to cover the huge wok we had with. I found it (buried in the back of one of the cabinets, under the spreading grease-fire). I quickly slammed it over the top of the wok.

And the cheap aluminum lid immediately buckled, so that now, instead of a column of vertical flame heading toward the ceiling, there were twin spouts of flaming oil shooting out to either side.

I was not about to let the goddamn house burn down - it had already been wrecked by a hurricane, and we were still in the process of suing the people we bought it from for the insurance money - which they'd kept, in breach of contract - but that's another story. I'd sooner have burned alive than walk out of that goddamn place, with all the trouble we'd had getting into it.

So... I ran out into the back yard, adrenaline practically shooting from my pores (fortunately, high-capacity adrenal glands run in my family), and grabbed a huge concrete planter we had on the porch. I flung the dirt out of it, and ran back into the house with the planter in both arms. I ran into the kitchen, and smacked the burning wok into the planter, and ran back towards the yard cradling a huge oil fire in my arms.

On my way out the back door, I couldn't really see well because of the heat and flames, and I tripped on the weatherstripping in the doorway. I stumbled and twirled and flung the concrete planter with it's flaming cargo away from my body, with the intent to avoid the whole third-degree-burns thing. The planter and wok went sailing into the swimming pool. The planter sank instantly to the bottom, and the hot wok exploded into thousands of tiny burning drops of oil when it hit the cold water.

I ran back into the house, and we put out the countertops and floor.

Then, in the moment of silence afterwards, I reached up, and discovered that my mustache, eyelashes, eyebrows, and all the hair on the front half of my head was gone.

I turned on my ex, glared at her through the swimming blurriness of eyes that had been a little too close to the roiling flames, and snarled "Well... shall we order dinner tonight?"

I threw out the rest of the oil even before going to take care of my burned hands, arms, and face. I figured it was that, or try to find out how to put out a fire in a metal trash can, with burn-mitts on my hands.