Metalurgy

I have found that the fastest way to test all your smoke detectors in your home, and by all I mean all of them simultaneously, is to use a pound of meat.
The other day I was aiming to make a wonderful home-made stew with lean, free range, hormone-free, American made beef. Lovingly butchered by my own husband. (The Wootan Way probably.) I had sauted the meat first, had a little time to kill before moving on to the next step, so I turned the burner off (or so I thought) and went to rest a few minutes since the baby was asleep and the house was calm. Soon I hear Shane exclaim, "Sarah! What is that smell?" I jump up, run down the hall, just as every single smoke alarm begins to wail. The baby woke up. Her big sisters run upstairs from their TV glutony and begin running around like it's a fun party. Nothing was ruined but my lovely, wonderful perfect new stock pot with a limited lifetime warranty (that does not cover user error.) Baby Tara and her Teradactyl-like tendencies must have felt comfortable with the noise because she just smiled at her sisters the whole time I was running around throwing open doors and windows. Or maybe it was because the smoke alarm sound reminded her of my singing. I can't say for sure.

Curse of the wet lawnmower seat

What is supposed to happen in this arid high desert of the Snake River Valley in lovely Eastern Idaho when the sun comes out? Anything watery is supposed to dry out. Our average humidity here is something like .oo3%, which is why my skin is aging at a rate triple that of my midwestern family members. I could easily pass for a member of the AARP thanks to our climate. So why is it that when the baby is properly fed, diaper changed, appropriately clothed for mid-morning in mid-spring (waaay easier said than done thanks again to the aforementioned climate), the sun is out, the big sisters are engaged in something with a mess-making factor of less than average, the gas tank on my Craftsman is full, the Baby Bjorn carrier is properly fitted, the sunscreen is applied to all applicable areas, and the planets are aligned--why is it that I do not see the huge pond of water on the seat of my favorite suburban toy? Unfortunately I know from experience that when the sun has warmed that pool of water to the temperature of the black vinyl seat it occupies, you don't necessarily feel it right at first. It is comfortable. Then after a couple of mowing minutes, you realize that something is wrong. Your pants are wet.