Monday night madness, I thought, glancing at my kitchen clock. Church orchestra practice was in less than half an hour, and I still had things to take care of—cook some chicken to take for lunch that week, feed the dogs, change out of my work clothes.
I filled a pot with water and stuck it on the stove, turning the gas burner up high. Orange flames licked the metal. Hurry, hurry. I stared at the pot, then caught myself. A watched pot never boils, I thought. I set the chicken next to the stove, all ready to go.
Now the dogs. “Bubba, Paco, dinner!” Our six-year-old basset hound and five-year-old Lab mix scampered in. They eyed the chicken on the counter. “No, no,” I said. I scooped kibble into their bowls and they chowed down.
By then the water was rolling furiously, so I threw the chicken in. Finally I glanced at the clock again. Gotta get a move on!
I ran to my bedroom and changed. “Go play,” I told the dogs, letting them out into our fenced-in yard. Then I grabbed my keys and headed to church. I made it to my seat at the chimes just as everyone else finished tuning their instruments. Phew!
Practice went well. We were all getting our parts down and I felt confident about mine. It wasn’t till I was pulling out of my parking space afterward that it hit me. The chicken. I’d left the pot boiling!
I tried not to break the speed limit on the drive home, but dreadful visions filled my head. Everything we owned burned to ashes. The dogs, were they safe? Lord, I prayed, things are just things, but please, watch over Bubba and Paco!
I turned onto our street. No flames or smoke or fire trucks. The house looked fine from the outside. The dogs were fine too, romping in the yard.
Inside, I didn’t smell any smoke. I rushed to the stove, turned off the burner and peered into the pot.
The chicken wasn’t burned. There was still plenty of water sloshing around in the pot—two and a half hours after I had left it boiling. Two and a half hours!
Someone was watching the pot after all.
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