I have done many, many stupid things in my life. I am a stupid man. But by far the number one stupidest thing I have ever done is this:

I made bean soup tonight. I tasted it just before I had to leave to pick Kris up at the airport. Andrew called. We talked. We talked some more. Soon I was late and had to leave. I forgot about my bowl of soup. I forgot about the soup on the stove, still simmering on the stove.

I drove to the airport. Kris' flight was delayed, so I sat and read Little House on the Prairie.

Suddenly it dawned on me: I left the soup on the stove.

I left the soup on the stove, on the heat, waiting for the beans to get a little softer. They only needed another half an hour. But I had forgotten them, and now it would be an hour — two? three? — before I'd return to take them off.

I left the soup on the stove.

I left the soup on the stove.

I left the soup on the stove.

I tried to read more, but I could not concentrate. I left the soup on the stove. Pa is building a house? I left the soup on the stove. A pack of wolves torments the family? I left the soup on the stove. The Ingalls meet Mr. Edwards? I left the soup on the stove.

I envisioned worse disasters, possible futures in my own life. What if enough water evaporated that the simmer turned into a boil? What if all the moisture was then baked out of the beans? What if they began to smoke, then to smolder, and then burst into flames? The cabinets above the range are metal, it's true, but I envisioned a homecoming in which we arrived to a blazing inferno: no house, no cats, no books. And all because I left the soup on the stove.

I left the soup on the stove.

I left the soup on the stove.

Not only was Kris' flight delayed by half an hour, it landed a half hour late beyond that. I left the soup on the stove. I greeted her as warmly as I could, vowing not to tell her that I had left the soup on the stove.

"How was your flight?" I asked, holding her hand.

"Fine," she said. "Except to me it's two o'clock."

"I think I left the soup on the stove."

"What?"

And so I explained.

"You shouldn't have told me." she said.

We waited for the luggage. And waited and waited and waited. We waited for the elevator. We waited to pay for parking. We waited in traffic. We waited at stoplights.

"Go down Oak Grove," Kris told me. We don't usually go down Oak Grove. But I soon understood her reasoning. The fire station is on Oak Grove; we could see that all the little red fire engines were snug in their home.

The trip down Oak Grove seemed to take forever. "This road has never been this long before," I said.

I sort of slid into my parking spot on the side of the road, dashed open the door, flew up the walk, fumbled with my keys, and rushed to the kitchen where I breathed a sigh of relief. But not too deep a sigh. The stench of scalded beans hung heavy in the air. I turned off the stove and looked at the congealed mass. The liquid had all boiled away. All that remained was a dessicated mass of bean-ness.

I have done many stupid things in my life, but this is by far the number one stupidest thing I've ever done.

I'll bet The Cinnamon Bear never burned bean soup.

Episode #12: "Rhyming Rabbit" (10 December 1937) — Judy and Jimmy meet up again with Crazy Quilt, who says the Wintergreen Witch forced him to steal the Silver Star. While trying to find their way back to the Wintergreen Witch's house, they encounter the Rhyming Rabbit.

A rhyming bunny's pretty funny.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2003 — A Wet Nose in My Ear   Nemo has decided that rather than sleep at night, it's more fun to jump on the bed and purr while sticking his wet nose in my ear.

2002 — The Orchid Thief   We both agree the book is rambling and pointless, without much of a story. It meanders from here to there and back to here again. Here is where we differ: Kris hates the book, I think that it is brilliant.