Last night, I took over cooking duty from Fiance who had just started to make burgers for our dinner - he does an awful lot of cooking, and my turn to create something fabulous was well overdue. I sent him back to the TV, where a football match that I have absolutely no interest in was being shown, and set to work continuing the burger making process.
I should probably point out that I had already drunk three glasses of wine by this point.
Now, our kitchen isn't the largest of rooms and we have to scrabble for space at the best of times. but on this occasion the washing up hadn't been done, which made the fight for room even more tactical. Fiance had already managed to reshuffle the plates to find a big enough gap in which to place the hallowed container that contained the beginnings of the meaty treats (aka a pack of minced beef in a bowl), and with a sprinkling of imagination (that I will come back to later) I was able to find a little more space in which I could weave my culinary magic.
A little onion, breadcrumbs, cumin, cayenne pepper and regular S&P seasoning later, the meaty mixture was ready for its glorious transformation from mush to burger. Having heated the oven (for some chips, obviously), started frying some onions and set a griddle pan on the hob to heat up in preparation for the burgers, I looked around and noticed that the room was getting a little smokey.
No problemo, I thought, as I opened the panel that started the extractor fan and waited for the air to clear. It was taking a bit longer than I expected, and thanks to the washing machine going at full pelt and the mp3 dock blasting out its wares at top volume, I wasn't entirely sure whether or not the extractor was working, on the technical basis that I couldn't hear it.
I decided to investigate by moving my ear towards the hatch and assessing whether it made a noise when I was closer to it and less distracted by the music and machinery. My mistake came from holding the handle of the panel as I leaned in to get my ear closer to the vent - thanks to the laws of science, my weight bore down on the hatch and pulled it closed.
That's right - I pulled it closed, right onto my head.
It must have taken me ten seconds to work out the physics behind my head becoming trapped in the extractor fan door, all the while giggling at the sheer stupidity of the situation I had ended up in. I extracted my head, and thanks mainly to the alcohol, plundered on regardless, frying my onions, baking my chips, flippin' my burgers and grating some cheese. Burning my fingers a couple of times too. Fiance came through to see how things were going, and immediately commented on the imaginative techniques I had used to clear some space in the kitchen (I told you I'd come back to it).
Fiance raised an amused eyebrow. To me, a teapot on the floor made perfect sense - it gave me a teapot's worth of room on the side to play with (a worthy prize, regardless of the implications of me frequently forgetting it was there and tripping over it). To him, a teapot on the floor was plain weird.
I went on to confirm that the unsuccessful teapot hurdling hadn't been my only issue and revealed that I had in fact also suffered an altercation with the fan only minutes earlier. He thought he must have misheard the first time round.
Fiance: What, you banged your head on the edge of the fan?
Me: Um no, not really. I said I actually managed to shut my head in the fan.
He walked away laughing.
Fortunately, the end result was (somewhat miraculously) a success, leading us to the drunken consumption of a couple of beautiful burgers, with the added bonus of knowing there is left over meaty goodness that will make delicious meatballs at some point over the weekend.
On reflection, the lump on the side of my head and accompanying headache is a small price to pay.