So I made créme brulèe for a French project.  Everything went fairly well.  No mishaps mixing the eggs and sugar, the hot cream didn't scramble said eggs when I poured it in (one.... tedious.... spoonful.... at.... a.... time....), it cooked, it chilled for six hours (during most of which I finally slept, hahaaa).

I sprinkle the brown sugar on it this morning, then put it in the oven under "broil" to caramelise it.  I go upstairs, comb my wet hair, and start to put volumiser in it -- an operation which took roughly 45 seconds total.

Long story short, I caught the oven on fire.

ON FIRE.

FLAAAAMES were shooting out of the oven, the smoke alarm started screaming, I stand there yelling "WHAT SHOULD I DO?!  WHAT SHOULD I DO?!"  And all Mum can think of to say over the din is, "I HOPE THIS DOESN'T WAKE YOUR SISTER!"  (Wtf?)

In a log home, this is not the best chain of events.

And further proof that I need a hired chef once I move out, or at least a husband who is culinarily inclined.  I am domestically challenged to the extreme.

{{BTW -- the custards, aside from resembling petrified hockey pucks, were unharmed and delightfully edible.}}