Where there is smoke, there is...

...me, in the kitchen.

This is a regular scenario in my home. I am in the kitchen cooking dinner. My husband comes home and the first words out of his mouth are, "What's burning?"

Tonight we had pizza for dinner, by request of the kiddos. My seven-year-old made sure to ask me at the store while we were buying the ingredients, "Mom, please don't burn the pizza this time, okay?"

I didn't, not this time. But the last time, well, that's what prompted her to say that.

About three weeks ago, hubby and I were heading out to a concert in Tuscon, about two hours south of where we live. On a rainy Monday night. He had to rush home from work, and the plan was that we would eat dinner quickly, then get on the road. His brother was coming over to babysit.

The girls asked me that day for pizza for dinner. Easy-peasy, I thought. We picked up some yummy Amy's brand pizzas at the store and pre-made salad. We got home, I popped the pizzas in the oven and dumped the salad in a bowl.

Then I remembered that I needed to print out the directions to the venue. So I went to the computer to mapquest the theatre. See a pattern here? Me on the computer=fire in the kitchen.

A few minutes later I rushed out of the room and raced to the kitchen to get the pizzas out. Too late. When I opened the oven door, smoke billowed out and immediately filled the room. My kids and brother-in-law hopped off the couch and coughed out, "What happened?"

Not understanding how they could miss the OBVIOUS evidence of burned pizza, I cried out, "I ruined dinner!" My husband had just arrived home from work, saw the horrible look on my face, and announced, "I'm going to McDonald's. What do you want from there?"

Even Happy Meals didn't fix the kids' moods. They had wanted pizza that night. We left for the concert with my two children's eyes watering from a combination of disappointment and smoke inhalation.

The next day, I was folding laundry that had been left on the couch from the day before. Something wasn't right... I picked them up and inhaled the scent of burned pizza, captured in my family's pajamas and socks.

So today, I was very attentive to the pizza in the oven, not leaving the kitchen except to announce that it was perfectly cooked and ready. I hope the previous homemade pizza disaster will now be forgotten.

(Fat chance, I know.)

(Would you believe, that my brother-in-law peeled off and ate the unburned toppings from the charcoal pizzas that night?)