And someday, my grandchildren will ask "Grandma, is something burning?"

I listen to the police scanner all week at work, sometimes chuckling at the looney situations people find themselves in. Raccoons in garages, that sort of thing.

Last night, I almost became one of those calls.

Dave got a more stable second job, so we decided to celebrate by being lame and watching season five of "The Twilight Zone" from the library and drinking some wine. Dave thought -- sober, mind you, the wine drinking we do is never really scandalous -- it'd be nice to make some popcorn.

He put the bag in, set it for three minutes (because that's what it was in the apartment, in the microwave that was provided to us there) and we sat back down. We hadn't gotten past the opening sequence when Dave jumped up from the couch and ran to the kitchen.

Smoke -- real smoke, not buttery vapor -- filled the kitchen (I was still on the couch, thinking he just burnt the popcorn, ready to shake my head at him and tell him to light a candle). He started screaming "MY EYES! I CAN'T SEE!" and I heard him run outside. I figured if the outdoors were a solution to whatever problem he was facing, I should check it out.

I hesitantly peeked around the corner to find the kitchen, my blue, beautiful kitchen, well, not there. It wasn't blue. It was filled with smoke. My eyes burned, my throat burned, it was just like like one of those moments in the Fire Safety Mobile when the fire fighters are telling the 8-year-olds "get down! You'll never make it out of this controlled situation if you don't GET DOWN."

I didn't get down. I instead started waving my arms in front of the smoke detectors, praying it didn't go off. (On a side note, the dang thing never went off. I'm pretty sure it's dead.)

Dave opened all the windows and doors, turned the fan on high, and ran around going "I'm sorry!" as the smoke filled the entire first floor. As the smoke in the kitchen dissipated, we tiptoed over to the smoldering microwave to inspect the damage. It was black. If you've ever stood over a hot fryer at a Dairy Whip for five years, you can imagine how the burnt grease dripped from the top and sides of the microwave.

He went back outside to grab the popcorn -- it hadn't even popped. It just burnt in the bag. Little black pebble-looking kernels sat in the bag, looking more like he cleaned out the bottom of a charcoal grill than tried to make himself a snack.

We slammed the door shut and tried to forget about it. It's a stained microwave, all yellow with shame.

And it stinks in here, 12 hours later. We can air out this house for 65 years, and on rainy days he'll still turn to me and say "Erin, I'm sorry. No more popcorn."