Walking into the kitchen earlier and smelling smoke, I noticed that something cooking in the microwave still had 76 minutes left to cook. Taking it out, I discovered a blackened hash brown on a partially melted plastic plate.

Willow. The one time she decides to not eat a hash brown frozen (her usual preference) I'm out of the room.

Later, after I've made everybody sit in the backyard for a bit to avoid breathing in the smoke, the fan I've put on the table to clear the air vibrates off the edge and breaks on the floor.

Now we're out one plastic plate and one fan, all because, as Sophie put it, "Willow made a black hash brown!"