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A long time ago, when my BBQ prowess was far less than it is now, I was doing a beer-can chicken recipe. The “spice rub” it called for was largely composed of table salt, and the directions called for “liberal amounts” of the rub. So I liberally applied the rub and cooked the chicken. There was so much salt that the meat was inedible, it was like eating fire or something. Or to quote Ralph Wiggum, “It tastes like… burning.”
Mrs. Coaster and I are both bad about cleaning out things like the crumb catcher in a toaster oven, and that has been problematic on occasion. I had just reheated a pice of prime rib in the toaster oven, and it dripped fat/grease down to the bottom, but I didn’t think it needed to be cleaned just yet. Mrs. Coaster then went and made some toast a little later, and sure enough, it caught fire. The timing of the next part is classic. I hear form the kitchen in a somewhat surprised, and somewhat dejected tone “Hey, my toast is on fire!” I then begin to say “Well, whatever you do don’t… (at this point she opens the door) … open the door!” Of course, opening the door caused the fire to erupt up and out of the toaster oven. I saved the day with a fire extinguisher. Damn, those things make a big mess! That shit took forever to clean up.
We replaced the destroyed toaster oven with the EXACT SAME MODEL and sure enough, it happened again. THIS time she shut it down and let the flame die out before opening, I was so proud. Needless to say, we bought a much better toaster oven after that time.
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If you have any poo... fling it NOW!
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