My Mom, the Hothead

Remember him?   He has flames for hair.   Super-important to our story.
Hope my mom still talks to me after this post.  

Back in the day, when my thighs did not touch each other when I stood and the worst sentences in the world was "I'm gonna tell Mom,"  my mother had dark red hair.   Along with her dark auburn hair, she had the temper to match.   Far be it from any of us to cross her.  All she had to do was give us "The Look"  or even worse,  one of her infamous one four hour long lectures over every transgression we had ever committed IN OUR LIVES, and we quickly were back on the straight and narrow.     In those days during her lectures, somewhere around hour three or four, I would stare at her until my eyes glazed over, my pupils unfocused, and her face morphed into some strange-looking monster.   Don't tell her I wasn't listening.

I can't sit through another lecture.   Please.

That fiery hair always matched her temperament back then.  Quick to anger, quick to laugh.  

Yesterday, however, that once-fiery, now-grey hair was just fiery and quick to burn.

As I wasn't there for this incident, I'll just have to piece together with first-hand accounts from my sisters. brother, and mom, herself, to figure out exactly what happened.

According to Mom, she was bent over,  just about to take the turkey out of the oven when the bag burst, causing a waterfall of turkey juice and fat to cascade down onto the heating element and the ensuing fireball to encase her head.   She quickly moved her head out of the way, but the damage had been done.

Half an eyebrow gone and a patch of hair about the size of your hand singed to a funky, dirty-ferret yellow.  With lovely black, crispy tips.
The skin on her forehead was a little pink and shiny....kind of like a day at the beach.

But not.

An attractive look to be sure.

Mom called in a panic. Her hair was burnt, the sink in the bathroom was clogged up, my dad had just put his hand through a rusty pipe, and Thanksgiving was quickly becoming ruined.  

You know.  Just a typical day around the house.

According to the kids, mom and dad kept opening up the oven and checking on the fire's progress, ensuring that the fire got just enough oxygen with every opening for it to whoosh out several feet from the oven door.  Eventually, my brother* had to leave the room after watching Mom, with  her burnt hair and pink skin, continually opening the oven, because he couldn't quit laughing and didn't want "The Lecture" to befall him.    My sister* said Mom would open the oven and call my father's name, the fire would spring out, and she'd slam the door, with a shocked look upon her face. My sister, too, had to leave the room, laughing.

Eventually the fire went out, mom got a surprisingly moist and unburned, but slightly smoked turkey out of the oven, and Thanksgiving proceeded as planned.

Oh, the Thanksgiving memories.



Happy Birthday Mom, burnt hair and all.  This post is for you.


*Name and sex of my siblings may have been changed and or omitted to protect the somewhat innocent.