There were things that went right, there were things that went wrong.
It was my second spell of more intense grandparenting. I've already described the first. It took the form of a pleasant stay for nearly a week at my son and daughter-in-law’s place outside Madrid, to help a little with their family, now that the number of grandchildren has doubled to two. Direct help meant taking Matilda to school or out to a playground, or it meant providing Elliott – fully seven weeks old when I got there – with a comfortable chest to lie on and sleep, neither of which proved too taxing in general and mostly went fine (more about when it didn’t later).
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| Proving I'm up to acting as a mattress for Elliott |
It’s an elementary piece of kitchen wisdom that you never, but never, put water on a pan in which oil is burning, or even on one in which the oil is overheated. As my son kindly pointed out, this is so basic that one learns at about the age of six. My excuse is only that six is a long time ago for me (62 years) and that’s given me long enough to forget even the most basic of wisdom.
I was trying to finish a simple meal quickly. I put the oil on to heat while I finished chopping ingredients, specifically (though I don’t know why you need to know this, since it isn’t particularly relevant to the story), some garlic. I was listening to a gripping audible book on my phone while I chopped, and I confess that I didn’t notice the pan overheating. By the time I realised what had happened, the oil at the bottom of the pan was swirling around in an ugly way and beginning to smoke.
With hindsight, I know that all I had to do was take the pan off the ring and let the oil cool down. But everything’s easy with hindsight. What I actually did, not having completely emerged from the absorption in my book and in the soporific action of chopping garlic, was rush the pan to the sink and run water onto the oil.
There was a great gushing noise and the kitchen quickly filled with acrid smoke. Seconds later it had spread into the hall where it set off the smoke alarm. So to the unpleasant fumes was added the shrill piping of the alarm, to make the whole experience even ghastlier. Soon after, the smoke had spread into the sitting room where it left my daughter-in-law Sheena gagging and, above all, worried about Elliott (who, as it happened, in the end slept through the whole incident).
Of course, everything died down quickly. I managed to turn off the alarm. We went round opening windows so that the fumes dissipated. I was even able to resume preparing the meal.
The only lasting effects were to write off the pan (rather a good wok we bought for them and now have to replace) and the injuries to my pride, mostly self-inflicted, though sharpened by comments like my son Nicky’s, to the effect that even a six-year old would know better than to behave as I had.
My wife was helpful. “It’s just age,” she told me. A consoling thought: it wasn’t simply imbecility, as Nicky was suggesting, it was incipient dementia.
I don’t know if this will surprise you, but that isn’t really all that comforting.
As I said, taking Matilda out mostly went well. Right up to the last day when I was about to take her to school. She’s nearly two and has decided that it’s time to start exploring the limits of her abilities to explore the universe around her. She particularly likes climbing up on chairs to get things off the table. Generally, I catch her when she’s trying to do that and stop her before things go wrong, lifting her gently down from whatever height she’s reached, though to be honest that only means she generally starts again.
On this occasion I was, however, trying to finish a little washing up (you’ll remember that this is one of the things I didn’t generally get wrong). Trying to do it fast, which is when things go wrong, just like with the oil during the meal preparations. I suddenly heard a bump, followed by a wail. Turning round, I saw Matilda on the floor, to which she’d fallen from a chair when it slipped while she was reaching for some delicacy or other on the table. She’d bumped her head and was now letting us all know that she was displeased.
She has good lungs, so when she tells us things, we know we’ve been told.
Fortunately, a minute or so in Sheena’s arms (we could only spare a minute since it was time to head to school) followed by songs on my phone for her ears and blueberries for her mouth, calmed Matilda back down over the next quarter of an hour. She reached school in good humour again.
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| Swings are fun, Granddad |
By then, we were already moving at speed back towards home, when a car drew up alongside us.
“Are you going to the town centre?” the woman driver asked us.
We were. It turned out that she was the mother of a young girl, so she even had a child seat in the back. It was a matter of moments to strap Matilda in, while I jumped into the passenger seat. So we braved the hail and made it home pretty well dry anyway.
A good outcome and a heart-warming example of how Spanish strangers can be extremely thoughtful and kind.
There was one last moment of minor adventure before I returned home. I spent the last night with my other son, Michael, and his partner Raquel. He warned me that I should not roll onto the back of the sofa bed, as it wasn’t terribly stable. Sadly, at 6:00 in the morning, I was in an even less alert state than when I overheated the oil. I rolled too far, the bed tipped up and closed on me.
It’s a curious sensation. As though you’re being devoured by a piece of furniture. It certainly isn’t particularly restful.
Still, like the other minor mishaps of my stay, it was over quickly. There was no lasting damage done. Indeed, I even slept another hour perfectly peacefully.
Just one more thing to make a rewarding trip all the more memorable.
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