"My biscuits are burning! My biscuits are burning!"

Rick was working late last night, and I had my dinner in the oven as my son and I folded laundry and awaited Daddy's arrival.

Everything was hunky dory until about twenty minutes into the baking time when I faintly noticed a burning smell coming from the kitchen. I knew the food had at least another twenty minutes to cook, so I thought little of it. Yes, I realize how ill thought out that was. Another ten minutes go by, and the burning smell hasn't gotten worse, but it also hasn't gone away. I finally decide to peek inside the oven.

Clouds of black smoke billow out, surrounding my head and filling my lungs taking my breath away. Smoke detectors, three to be exact, start screeching as I try to fan away the smoke to see what may have caused this rude interruption to my casserole's bake time.

Sitting in the middle of the oven floor sat a sad, smoking little roll, apparantly left over from Thanksgiving dinner. I suppose he attempted freedom just as I removed the rest of his family from the warm cave to be devoured by the savages that were my Thanksgiving guests. His attempt at freedom gave him a slow, smoky death. Better than being eaten alive? Maybe.

So the house is filled with stinky smoke, the guilty party now sitting, charred and smoking in the sink as I open the kitchen window and attempt to clear the house of the offending black fog.

Someone starts pounding on the door and my son tries to answer it, saying something that I can't hear over the screechy song of the smoke detectors.

Its my neighbor, phone in hand. "I'm calling the fire department! Are you okay? Get out of the house!!" She starts to dial.

"No, no! Don't call the fire department, I've got everything under control. Just a little burned dinner."

She eyes the smoke slithering out the doors and windows, and for a moment, it seems as though she'll ignore my explanation and call in the brigade anyway. But alas, she turns off her phone and begins to retreat back to her house. Of course, her nosey little head was poked through her curtains watching our house for signs of fire, probably with phone in hand and ready to dial for help.

When Rick got home, she met him outside to tell him what happened.

"That smoke is not healthy for that baby of yours to be breathing in! I'm just scared to death that you'll all die from smoke inhalation in your sleep!"

Rick assured her that he would clear the house of any residual smoke, and that we would all be fine. She just shook her head, knowing that she did the right thing in warning us, and certain that we would all die in the night.

I'm happy to report that we all survived the smokey dinner rolls last attempt at freedom. May his doughy soul rest in peace.