So, yeah. Birthday dinner for the man I love. Little soiree for the immediate family. Riiiiight.

I am not sure how the day got away from me, but I didn't make it out to the store for the ice cream cake I had planned to serve, and since the hubs was unable to say "Yes! I would like XY and Z for my birthday meal!" I opted to serve mac and cheese with grilled sausages and frozen corn, on melamine plates.

As it shook out, he was two hours late arriving home. I've been a big, fiesty mess lately, and decided that I would have a beer while the kids ate dinner. No biggie. Just me, chillin' with a beer, supervising the eating of the mac-n-cheese.

I was doing my best foghorn impression for my children, blowing across the top of the bottleneck, *hhhhhwwwwwoooooooooo* and it dawns on me that I still haven't solved the lack-o-cake dilemma.

As my son would say: "Shoots and roots!"

The ETA of the birthday boy is still an unknown. I take a quick paw through the pantry. Hmm. No instant nothing. Aha! I spot some cocoa powder. Brownies. Awwwwww yeah.

We pause for a moment, so that you may imagine my dance interlude.

I gave a few more toots from the top of the beer bottle, and quickly assembled the ingredients on the counter. I grabbed a big bowl, a wooden spoon and bumped the fridge door shut with my hip.

Along about this time, a minor food fight broke out at the table. I upended the beer bottle, got the last few drops in, and banished the children to the yard. "Stay where I can see youse guys!" I ordered, while picking macaroni noodles from the hair of my son.

My little piggies promptly dug themselves a wallow and began decorating their limbs and faces ala Lord of the Flies. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, I began whuppin' up a mean batch of brownie goodness.

Preheat to 350. Check! Mix eggs, yadda yadda yadda, yell something out the door at the kids like "Don't be all muddy!" even as I see their mud streaked bodies, you know, because me issuing that kind of order will totally make them clean themselves. I notice a vague sweetish cooking smell, kinda nice really. Hmm, I should bake more. Makes the house smell nice. Like something is burning, actually.

I whip open the oven door to notice that the last time I used the oven, I made baked sweet potatoes, and one of them apparently leaked syrupy-sweet potato love juice all over my oven floor. This wasn't obvious until the black cloud of smoke cleared. Last friggin' time I try to cook healthy. Meh. I craft a plan of action, and begin my attack.

1) Try to scrape off remaining juice. Yeah. No. Manage to push crusty blackened yuck into heating element. Beauty!

2) Panic. Belatedly turn on stove fan. Flap hands and oven door.

3) Rush around opening doors and windows as smoke alarm starts Baaaahing at me. Yell "Kids! Get in here and help me flap!"

4) Flap fridge door to speed smoke removal, and opt to open another beer, while children run in circles around the kitchen, laller laller lallering.

5) Wave to neighbors over back fence. Return to hallway to swat at alarm with towel. Smoke dissipates, except for the occasional whiff that triggers a brief but deafning "Baaaaah!" from the smoke detector.

6) Shoo children back outside, and place cold beer on temple with one hand, while inserting brownies into oven with the other hand. Set timer.

7) Eat half pan of brownies before the hubs appears.

8) Smile with one tooth coated with brownie while children greet their father with naked butt smacking and cries of "Freedom!"

He's off tomorrow. Perhaps I can schedule a do-over.