The kitchen isn’t a wreck but one of the chairs is pulled out and there is a basket of laundry left on the floor. I’m too exhausted to do anything about these errant items quite yet so I leave them where they are. I make some coffee and retire to the living room to drink it and down a bowl of cereal, to unwind a little before proceeding with the chores. But when I go back into the kitchen, all of the burners on the stove are going full-blast and fire is spewing from the oven. I manage to get close enough to twist the knobs and turn the gas off. Though the burners have gone out, fire is still leaping from around the edges of the oven door. I rummage around the room for the fire extinguisher. When I finally find it and turn around, one of the burners has come back to life. I try to spray the stove but my aim is off and the carbon foam goes all over the floor, covering the laundry and the over-turned chairs and everything else that’s been thrown from the cabinets in my mad scramble. I blast the stove again and manage to hit it this time. It takes a few blasts but eventually the fire goes out. A. comes home just then, sees the mess, sees that everything is covered in foam. I’m at a loss for how to explain it.