As I walk down the stairs yelling at everyone to get their shoes on, we were leaving (while mentally patting myself on the back for being on time), Ben comes running up and tells me something is wrong with the microwave. I quickly look in the direction of the kitchen and smoke is wafting out the door. I dash into the kitchen expecting sparks to be flying out the microwave, but no--it's just smoke. I turn it off, open all the windows and doors, curse the fact that we don't have a functional fan in the kitchen due to the renovation and ask Ben what number he pushed for the smoldering french toast sticks. "Ummmmmmm 3, 4, 5, 6" So he either cooked the french toast sticks for 34 minutes and 56 seconds or just pulled those numbers out of his ass.
Pretty sure either option is possible.
And we were late to the party, too.
Here is a picture of the offending sticks. My friend Kelly told me if I actually paid attention to my kids and fed them, maybe they wouldn't have to try to cook for themselves at the age of 3.
Whatever.
