One Evening in the Life of Craig

It was an obsessive-compulsive moment. Just after crossing 24th St. on my way to the library the thought dawned on me: did I turn off the oven in the apartment? I thought it over for a moment before determining that there was no way to be certain and that the half-mile walk back for verification was the prudent thing to do.

Six years and four apartments ago I almost burned down the place because I forgot I had left a pot of oil intended for making popcorn on the stove at the high setting. I remember lifting the pot's lid, and within a fraction of a second, or the amount of time for the pot to let loose with an eerie whooshing sound, I was staring with mouth agape at a flame that was licking the stove vent. This was the exact moment in my life in which I decided that Mom's technique of treating the stove control dial as a switch between off and high was not for me. I don't particularly care about apartment property because I'm a lowly renter with a lowly renter's attitude, but burning down my apartment would be tragic because it's where I keep my bicycles.

The aroma of well done sweet potatoes and the soft glow of the burners on the other side of the oven window signified to me from across the dark room that I did indeed forget to turn off the oven. I turned it off, took out the crispy potatoes, and half-wrapped the smaller of the two in foil to take with me like a to-go order on my continued walk back to the library. I closed and locked the front door, leaving behind on the kitchen counter a burning candle.