He'd been cooking all day for his Home Economics homework. No burns, no major problems. This latest thing was an assortment of Muffins. They were almost done, but they needed a bit more time. He wanted to give them some support on the rack. He reached for the nearest flat plate. He placed the muffins on it, and put it in the oven. He waited ten minutes and came back. He let out a terrified squeal.
It was green. It was picnic ware. It was plastic.
Our oven is a disaster area. Melted, congealed plastic particles on the rack, on the bottom of the oven, making a really great smell permeate through our house.
This reminds me of the time my Nana put her similarly green plastic tray on the top of her oven, forgetting to turn a hot plate off. That melted. Then crispified. Then spread. Her house was covered in soot and we spent four days scrubbing the walls.
Mum is trying to clean the oven rack. Dad is inspecting the oven. I was told to "piss off", because, for some reason my parents didn't appreciate my inability to keep a straight face. Nick is crying in his room. Well, you would wouldn't you?