Hot Potato.

On Thursday night, I was lying in bed watching TV and I decided I was probably hungry. (Since the surgery last week, sometimes it's hard to tell what gurgle and twinge is what.) Hubby was going downstairs to put the dog out, so I asked him to cook me two potatoes in the microwave and I'd go down and get them.

I waited for the commercial break, figuring they'd still be warm when I got there.

They were.

They were actually on fire.

Smoke was billowing out of the microwave and moving horizontally across the kitchen, and it's a good thing there were flames, because that's how I found my way. I turned off the microwave and watched as the flames went out. Letting it sit for a minute, I called Hubby downstairs to ask him what on earth he had done.

Like a good student reciting the lesson he has learned, he said, "I poked holes in them so they wouldn't explode."

"And?" I said.

"And I put them on for fifteen minutes."

I took him by the hand and took him over to the microwave, pointing to the POTATO button.

"But I poked holes in them," he said.

That was nearly 48 hours ago and the house still reeks of smoke, partly because I just used the microwave for my lunch. But perhaps the funniest part about this story is that it's actually my fault.

First of all, I should have specified to use the button, knowing the Hubby sometimes doesn't notice these things. But most of all, a few months ago he asked me how long to time his oven-baked potato for, in order to time it with his chicken. I told him that it was "impossible to overcook a potato."

Apparently, I was wrong. :)