Flame On!

   When I was in high school, we had a house where the garage had been converted to a family room.  My parents, in their best move ever, put a pool table in there and I practically lived in there on the weekends, watching late-night TV and shooting pool.
   Often I fixed a bowl of popcorn to feast on late at night.  One wintry night, after our electric corn popper had gone kaput, but before we had a new one, I decided to use our big honkin' cast iron skillet to pop my corn.  I'd done it before, and I knew the drill - put the oil in, heat it up, add the popcorn, put the lid on, and shake it until everything popped.
   This night, though, we were out of oil.  I decided to use shortening.  It had to melt before it got hot enough to pop the corn, so I figured I could rack up the balls and make a shot or two on the pool table.  Being a typical kid, I got distracted, and a little while later I heard a muffled "whumph!" coming from the kitchen.  Ruh roh!!
   I ran into the kitchen and, sure enough, the shortening had melted, heated, and caught on fire.  I knew better than to pour water on a grease fire, and I had the presence of mind to remember that baking soda would do the trick.  The problem was that we kept the baking soda on a shelf above the stove, and the flame was pretty high (big skillet, lots of shortening - hey!  I was a growing lad!).  Fortunately, it had snowed recently and there were some drifts in the back yard that I figured I could drop the skillet in.
   I grabbed the burning skillet and I started walking quickly and quietly toward the sliding glass door to the patio.  As with most emergencies, time seemed to slow down.  I was moving quickly, but it seemed like such a long journey across the carpet, with flames going up out of the pan, but not up my arm.
   At about that time, my mom, who I thought slept like a log, decided to get up.  I didn't see her come out of my parents' bedroom, but when she screamed, I was so startled I leapt up into the air and ran toward the patio door.
   Let me point out that at the time I had a ratty old terrycloth bathrobe on, which I'd had holes and loose threads hanging down.  When I jumped and started running, the flames started moving toward my arms and my very flammable robe.
   My mom screamed again, "Lyndon!  You're on fire!!"
   I reached the door and flung the pan out.  It didn't reach the snow drifts, but instead hit the concrete patio and the fire went out anyway.  I was patting my arms, although my robe (thankfully) had not caught fire.
   "Mom!"  I said.  "I had it under control until you started screaming."
   By this time my dad was up and asked what was going on.
   "I was making popcorn and burned the pan," I said, in the understatement of the year.
   "Well be more careful," he grumped and went back to bed.
   After the adrenaline rush wore off, I decided I wasn't that hungry.
   I pay more attention when I cook now, whether or not it's popcorn on the stove.