A fiery vignette nearly witnessed a career coalesced up in flames

A lifetime of deep Freudian analysis (courtesy Meryl – no not Streep - last name unknown) resulted and thwarted promising future of world renown polymath tyke (now none other than the writer of these words as a sixty six year old), when during the radio heyday of America, the entire eye of Jupiter witnessed budding gastronomic and thespian genius videlicet yours truly while as a scampering imp, starring in One Thousand and One Nights (also known as The Arabian Nights), whereby each action dramatically announced by the director like a play by play sports event, but during one in tents scene the performance immediately cut short and nearly nipped in the bud as well a future five star studded Michelin fantastic fêted fate, when yours truly as a formidable kid experienced quesadilla nightmare fiasco circa 19__, practically setting the set on fire linkedin to a manifold generational offspring of Mrs. O'Leary's cow kicking over a lantern, and as a result ignited kitchen catastrophe necessitating performers and spectators to flood out of the theater, whereby even decades later (auteurs pause the production when thee action reached the part where blaze erupted), and the actors, actresses, and audience quaintly recounted the primary reason I became a highly volatile sought after recognized quasi pyromaniac, and again (flash forward about fifty years) at the date of this writing November 20th, 20__ an unfortunate but considerably less traumatic but still impactful event triggered when I attempted to make mock grilled cheese sandwich using classic Thomas' English muffins and technicolor (dream coat) mozzarella string cheese cooked in a nonstick pan amply sprayed courtesy LIDL version of PAM and situated atop a hot plate adrip with splattered pancake batter (analogous to a Jackson Pollock painting fresh on the heals from my wife's' successful attempt baking powder milk biscuits, my favorite entrée) since shucking off the mantle of a Norwegian Bachelor while still calling Lake Woebegone home sweet home he/him, i.e. me re-ushering, reliving, and recounting when aforementioned former incendiary brouhaha terrified the madding crowd unintended, yet since staged emulation of life tragicomic burning down the house rewritten as improvisational sacrificial immolation as Jesus prima facie forfeiture ceremony (for the salvation of humankind), way back when towering inferno an apropos curse on the house of mankind included as original unrehearsed Murphy's law - cue the devil donned in Prada running amuck, where chaos went in full swing with sparks flying awry igniting, flaming, and changing diss ember holiday disaster into a religious spectacle with Biblical undertones, overtones, and middle tones, which unexpectedly occurred courtesy when havoc sparked terror and struck a still smoldering blistering psychological memory here at Highland Manor, and nearly devastated professional vicenarian career oven already still young, restless, and famous adult culinary self taught food artist Matthew Scott Harris, when he starred as a bite size roll and woke miracle worker lad in what could only be called gifted quiet natured opportunity in the early twentieth century, nevertheless still for butter or worse, he still found himself tethered to apron strings of his mother claiming she only looked out for his welfare, and nevertheless left him very much subordinate to his then alive healthy mother (she owned particular knack to spout out one after another oxymoron, and venerated as great cook to boot Harmit Harms - known worldwide for her tendency to experiment and very loosely to follow a recipe), and yet amazingly spry for her age.

Actually lemme backtrack and apprise thee dear reader basted promising intimations regarding natural born (free and clear) raw talent in the kitchen as a precocious toddler did potschke like the rumor goes - even if started by yours truly) then a diminutive wizard miraculously whipping up amazing concoctions from (an overly active sense of imagination and ingenuity) even at that impressionable age, which gave my mother (while father sent off to battle) a hint of good things to come from her rather extraordinary chef Boyardee, whose future of mine (earning veritable gold metal – medal) quickly acquired after entering kindergarten catering to the culinary arts, whose admissions officers made a special exception to allow, enable, and provide a youngster where accouterments and accessories custom made to fit my pint size body electric, and many of the implements, (not just the pots and pans), especially utensils adapted to an average size little person, cuz the outsize adult forks, knives and spoons posed a hazard regarding accidental mishap of self induced harakiri, which close calls of evisceration essentially quickly initially imposed child proofing potential danger until a miniature galley (tricked out with the latest sophisticated trappings served as a special treat) for a modest chef prodigy fêted all across the world, wide web and before entering first grade already garnered a cooking show (way before the advent of countless cable channels and even commercial television, and yours donned with an olive drab wool tunic and breeches, an M1917 steel helmet, and puttees (cloth wraps) around the lower legs, along with trench boots to honor young fighters called Tumbling Pillsbury Doughboy, who served as my own little stuntman.