There is a fire burning in my oven.

Yes. Like as I type.

No, I'm not concerned.

Yes, I'm ready to cry.

No, I don't think that means I'm pregnant - yet another reason I want to sob. I've never been emotional when pregnant. I've always been emotional when my period is coming. Fuck.

What happened?

I wanted to make apple bread. For breakfast. We're trying to eat both a little better and more fiscally responsibly, which entails things like making a loaf of spiced bread to eat for a week of breakfasts instead of stopping at McDonald's three times a week (it has to be portable, as we are frequently running late).

I found a recipe or two, evaluated them, found one I liked and tweaked it based on others I'd seen. One difference - adding vanilla, and cinnamon and cinnamon chips in place of nuts (I don't care for nuts in my bread).

Only the apples we bought were bigger than average. So I intended to only use two of the three. Only I was having issues and getting frustrated, so DH offered to chop them up for me while I started the batter. That was fine. Only he didn't know I intended to use only two apples and cut up all three and they all ended up in the batter because I wasn't paying close enough attention. It was way too much. But it was also too late.

DH convinced me to try baking it anyhow, see how it turned out. So we put it in with the note to check in thirty minutes.

When we did, we found it had risen to overflow the sides, but a crust hadn't formed yet, so apples, batter and cinnamon chips had simply dripped in large clumps onto the oven.

As cooking time continued, they began to melt, then smoke, and eventually catch fire.

The 'bread' remains half-cooked and instead of apple pie, my house smells like smoke. And because it's a self-cleaning oven, we'll just have to set it to clean and allow it to burn everything off at high heat this weekend. It's the most gawdawful smell you can imagine and it lingers for days.

Fucking awesome. I score really low on domestic goddess scales this week. Most likely not pregnant, a hovel for a home and now no fucking breakfast and the smell of smoke for days to come.

To be clear, the fire was out before I'd finished typing half of this. The oven is in no way damaged that we can tell. We will clean it before we use it again to be safe.

And yes, I'm in a pissy, pissy, weepy, clingy mood and I'm disgusted with it.