So last Friday I decided to bake some meatballs and make pasta before I left for Mona’s for the weekend. I had bought pre-mixed meatballs a few weeks ago. Since then, my mom bought the same ones, fried them and said they weren’t great, more like sausage and that baking them would be better.
So last Friday I pre-heated the oven to 375, then baked them for 25 minutes or so. Then I took them out, ate them with pasta. As mom said, they were more like balled sausage. I’m not a huge fan of Italian sausage so I sucked it up, ate them quickly and ran out the door.
I had a great weekend with Mona. We went shopping, we cooked, drank wine from a Long Island winery, did some advanced cuddling, watched TV. Just enjoyed the hell out if each other’s company.
Today we made brunch and did house chores. I left 3:15pm and parked on my apartment building’s block.
I opened the door to my apartment… WAIT WHY IS IT SO FUCKING HOT?
I ran into the kitchen and YEP, the stove was on, and had been for FORTY EIGHT HOURS!!!!!
I turned it off, opened the windows and the door to the hallway, which unfortunately is the only way I can get a cross-breeze.
Is the apartment ok?! Has anything melted, burnt or been otherwise damaged?!
No. No? You sure? Yes. Everything looks ok.
My gas bill will be high this month, obviously but DAMN am I lucky.
Over the course of my life I’m usually anal about checking the stove before I left, usually have actually turned already-off stove knobs as if they could more off. Then stare at the knobs as if they can somehow spontaneously turn back on. And I NEVER have forgotten before.
Years ago, I’ve even once left a date early because I thought I’d left a candle lit at home (I hadn’t.)
But like the one time I don’t check the stove like a maniac, this happens.
Geez, thank you my guardian angels for keeping it safe for my apartment building neighbors. THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU! I didn’t think I needed to learn that lesson. Geez, that can’t happen again.