Last night, I was exhausted.  When Andrew and I got home, he wasn’t hungry, so I made some ramen.  I have this special way I make ramen where I microwave it until the noodles are soft, then stir fry them.  It’s really good.

We were sitting around, reading the internets, when Andrew said, “Do you smell smoke?”

We looked towards the kitchen, where there was smoke billowing from the microwave.

“Oh crap!” I said.

He leaped up, rushed into the kitchen, hit the stop button, and started choking on the smoke.   “Did you put in any water?” he coughed.

“Oh crap!”  I went a few steps towards the kitchen, inhaled a bunch of smoke, and decided he had the situation under control.

When he opened the microwave door, smoke poured out.  Sitting at the bottom of the bowl was a briquette of ramen that was pitch black and smoking.  Andrew filled the bowl with water in the sink.  It hissed and steamed, eventually turning into a brown sludge around the burned ramen.

The crisis was over, but the apartment stunk.  There was so much smoke it looked foggy.  We opened all the windows, turned on the fan, and still could barely breathe.

“Shall we go out for dinner then?” I asked.

“Let’s.”

Luckily, we live on a street with 14 different ramen places.  It was delicious.

“You know, you almost set the apartment on fire cooking noodles,” Andrew pointed out.

It’s going to be a while until I live this one down.

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