So during my cooking mania this past weekend I decided to use the oven to bake a blueberry crumble. This seemed innocuous enough; I'd certainly been an adept baker in the past and I missed it, to be honest. This was a time to use my newfound knowledge of how to turn on my oven and actually use it. I'd not been charged for this ridiculous knowledge and I was going to celebrate. Celebrate by making myself a tasty summer berry dessert.
Unfortunately this didn't translate that well in real life. Well the blueberry crumble did. That thing went gloriously. Look at how gorgeously it turned out, despite the horrid accident I will shortly describe:
Yeah, quite nice I'd have to say.
Anyway, back to the story at hand. I was preheating the oven (which was actually now humming with life and heat) when I noticed that the racks were in the wrong positions.
Damnit! I should have checked this before I turned on the heat but in my joy of actually knowing how to turn on the oven I didn't bother looking. Foolish mistake #1. There were many to be had that morning so this wasn't where the stupidity stopped. Far from it, unfortunately for my foot.
So I took out the offending rack. There was just one too many at the top that would have prevented my glass pan from going in so I took it out. And instead of placing it on the counter or the stovetop like a normal logical human being, I...
...propped it up on the ground against the laundry machine. I figured it would be out of the way there and I wouldn't have any chance of touching it.
Boy was I wrong. I was so incredibly wrong I can't even describe how wrong I was.
Oh wait I can! Because you can see my incorrectness literally burned into my skin!
A few minutes after taking said offensive rack out of the oven, I decided that I would be industrious while my crumble baked. I would put away dishes and wash the other dishes I had dirtied.
The drying rack is right behind where I'd just put a burning hot oven rack. Yes.
I walked into the thing. Directly into the thing. My toes wrapped around it. Scalding hot metal.
I didn't feel it at first since nerves have a long way to travel to the brain from toe to head. Then suddenly I was swearing like a sailor for a good ten minutes or so, likely scaring the bejeezus out of my neighbors because all of my windows were open to welcome in the summery sunshine we've been getting the past two weeks.
Glory almighty that is some horrible feeling. My intern asked if it smelled like bacon. My response: no idea, I wasn't exactly paying attention as my entire foot was encased with searing white hot pain.
The result? Second degree burns all over my foot (mostly my toes):
There is no good picture that captures this, but basically the damage happened on my big toe, between my first and second toes, between my third and fourth toes, on my little toe, and under my little toe.
Literally walked and wrapped myself around that thing. There couldn't have been anything more retarded.
I moved it out of the way as soon as I could stop screaming. Moved it behind a chair in the family room - completely out of the way.
The British oven has once again conquered me; proving itself far superior to me in intelligence and craft.
I get it. I will show proper respect next time.
Won't stop me from cursing its name for the entirety that I live in this apartment but at least I will try to keep these obscenities to myself. Well, relatively.
Oven: two. Me: none.
The general aftermath: the burns have blistered up nicely and I can't actually feel anything with the skin anymore. I went to the pharmacy this morning (a day after) to see what kind of ointments or remedies they might sell. Nothing that I would consider worth the money, so it's back to antiseptic gel at home and not much else. Here's to hoping for little scarring. Even if it does scar though, I'll just consider it an appropriate battle wound for my ridiculous stupidity in the moment. I'll remember it fondly as "That one battle I had with my British oven. The one I lost."