Hot breakfast

On Friday morning, I woke up a little early and decided to cook a nice breakfast.

The cooking took longer than expected, however, and even with the early rising we were finishing just barely with enough time to clean teeth, put on shoes, and run out the door to catch the tram.

From the tram I waved goodbye to Jonathan, and walked to the train. I took the train out to the suburbs, then caught the shuttle to my university, as usual.

Just as I was stepping off the shuttle, a little panicky voice in my head said:

"Wait! Do you remember to turn off the stove this morning?"

I paused.

Did I remember to turn off the stove?

Well, I know I turned on the stove, because I cooked breakfast, and it was cooked, not cold. And so the stove was on.

Did I remember turning it off?

I remember turning the stove down to low to simmer while breakfast was cooking. I remember taking the food off the stove. I remember eating the food. I remember washing the dishes. I even remember putting away the ingredients when finished. I remember all of that.

No, I didn't remember flipping the switch to turn off the stove.

And then the little voice in my head said:

"PANIC!!!! AAAAAAAAHH!!!! YOU'RE GOING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN!!!"

I paused there on the sidewalk, just off the shuttle, letting the students stream past on either side, like Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea, and I did a few calculations.

I could go home, to check that switch, to see if I turned it off. I could turn right around and get back on the shuttle to the train to the walk to the apartment, and I could run upstairs and check. I could be home within the hour. Would the house have burned down by then?

And then I took a deep breath, and sat that panicky voice down in my head, and told it that even though I don't remember explicitly turning off the stove, chances were 90% that I did. I reminded the voice that I had an important meeting on campus in 40 minutes. That I couldn't get home and back in  time. That I almost never moved a pot off the stove without turning it off. That even if I had forgotten to turn it off, there was nothing on the stove that could burn. That Italian cooks left their stoves on all day on low, albeit supervised. That surely I had turned the stove off, hadn't I? 90% surely. Or at least 85% surely. Maybe 80% surely. Surely?

And I took a shaky step forward.

And then another, and another.

And the panicky voice started to hyperventilate, screaming all the way, but I ignored it and walked to my office. And I started working. And I had a reasonable, albeit somewhat more stressful, day.

I hurried home right after my last meeting in the afternoon. Shuttle to train to walk to apartment. The apartment was still there, no smoke pouring from the windows. No firetrucks. Quiet. Calm.

"Mom, you're late. We need to go now!" said the teenager, just as I opened the door.

Bus to practice. One hour. Bus to home. And then, finally, 12 hours after finishing breakfast, I remembered to check the stove.

It was off.

Take that, little voice in my head, I said. It was off the whole time!

From now on, we're eating cold cereal for breakfast every morning.