Narrative Essay

‘Stay out of the kitchen!’  Mothers say that for a reason. To mothers, their children entrancing the kitchen are identical as unskilled conscripts jumping into a fierce battlefield. However, for a 10 years old child, everything seems so optimistic, so that is why, when I turned the stove on, I didn’t know what disaster was coming into fruition.

            It was a such a typical Sunday morning, when all the matters around the cosmos seemed so serene and in such gentle harmony, and I recall, that was why I had a primitive thought and confidence from an unknown source to make eggs and impress my parents. Everything seemed just perfect. I opened the fridge, took out a few, brown, adorable eggs, and a gallon of cooking oil from the cupboard. I was fully confident of my success-how difficult can it be to cook a few egg? So with a rather naïve confidence, I turned the stove on, and placed the frying pan on top, with firm movements as if a Zoroaster shaman in ancient Persia summoning the sacred fire. Ah, the warmth of kitchen fire! There was a reason why Hestia was one of the Greek Goddesses, and many great literatures described kitchen as the warmest place in the house. The warmth emitted from the stove was enough for me to stare at the pan for minutes even the pan was heating up so rapidly.

            However, even though the warmth was so hypnotizing, I went back to track. I poured a few heavy drops of cooking oil, patiently waiting for the timing to Para drop the my eggs into the no-man’s land of fizzing cooking oil, sparkling as liquid gold. The egg white flowed through the fan, and soon after the baptise of the silk- like, delicate egg white, the bright yolk soon followed its journey to the execution pit. Now, until here, everything went according to the plan.

            The ‘catastrophe’ started from here. Even though I acknowledged the fact that the ability of the stove, I didn’t know the peril of cooking with oil in a high temperature. After I picked up my first cooked egg in complete amazement, a drop of cooking oil fell on my forehead. People often say that when you’re in a state of panic, your mind goes black. They were wrong. The only colour in my vision was orange. The agony gets worse as the colour gets stronger. I screamed. As people know from experiences, it is a lot more painful to be brunt by oil, and for 10 years old, this pain was unbearable. I dropped everything from my hands, shouting, even though the agony turned into rather painful itches. I collapsed to the kitchen floor, acknowledged the fact that there are still are few more eggs, probably burnt, and still fizzing up at the pan.

            Seconds after that, I got myself back. I slowly stood up, walked to the sink, and slowly washed my face. The pain was still there, but I somehow managed to stand up straight and to look around. The kitchen was a mess. The bottle of cooking oil was at the floor, oil pouring through the floor. The eggs started to make sounds as if they were going to explode, pieces of deep-fried eggs flying across the kitchen, and I was just standing there, with a badly burnt forehead, with eyes that still are confused. I do not remember if I cried that day, but I clearly recall that I didn’t even bother the clean the mess, just standing there until my mother came out, totally shocked.

            I still remember, that breakfast, eating the leftovers of the disasters as a punishment, I was telling myself; this is the worst Sunday I ever had. The kitchen needed to be clean, which sacrificed my entire Sunday Morning, and the eggs were so chewy they were literally rubber, and not to mention the few minutes of shouting and other miscellaneous troubles I had to go through. To be honest, to this day, that sentence I mouthed to myself never changed, and I also realized that day why mothers always shout ‘Stay out of the kitchen!’