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A hearty feast of free readings, lectures, presentations, workshops and showcases celebrating our culture, community and the wild blue yonder.
 Where inquiring minds gather.
Okanagan Institute
at Hanna's Lounge
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Arts Council of the Central Okanagan is a resource centre and advocate for the arts in Kelowna and Central Okanagan. Find us at:
8-1304 Ellis Street
Kelowna BC V1Y 1Z8
Phone: 250.861.4123
Fax: 250.861.4155
Email: Click here
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Literary Arts
How I Got Rid of Aunt Julia's Gingersnaps Barbara J. Shave
They say that something good always comes from the bad things that happen to us. It took a kitchen fire to free me from Aunt Julia's gingersnaps.
Those cookies began to impact my life some twenty years before when Aunt Julia discovered that individually-packaged gingersnaps could be mail-ordered in boxes of about three thousand. That Christmas everybody in the family received one of these unique gift boxes, each of which likely cost a fortune because postage alone was fifteen dollars. As per appreciation-training since diaperhood, all of us thanked her profusely by mail and telephone call.
It was honest gratitude at that point. The bite-sized gingersnaps were indeed tasty and always fresh within their cellophane wraps. They could be packed in lunches and arrayed for family grazing and we munch happily at first. Supply far exceeded demand in this case, however, and when we had our fill of gingersnaps ten months later, we gave handfuls to Halloween trick-or-treaters. Still, that first box of cookies was not consumed before the next was delivered.
Unfortunately our initial enthusiasm had given Aunt Julia cause to believe that she had found the perfect Christmas present for all time. Additional boxes of gingersnaps came each successive year. They piled up in family basements like spare concrete blocks. Throw them out? Such wastefulness was unthinkable in my family. As our gratitude dissipated, however, we snickered about our cookie saturation behind Aunt Julia's back and goaded each other to tell her "Enough is enough already!" Unfortunately, no one ever had the heart to break hers, so we continued to collect.
Leaks have not yet revealed how my relatives thinned their accumulations. In my case, while I nevertheless penned gushing thanks in annual notes, I plotted the surreptitious disposal of Aunt Julia's gift. I gave cookies to neighbours until they began to duck behind their drapes when they saw me coming. The food bank gladly received the five boxes which I slipped to them in successive years. Ten further boxes became part of the stored shelter supplies for my community's disaster response team.
I did not give all of them away, however. I always kept plenty for snacks and for serving during Aunt Julia's occasional visits. So until the fire, gingersnaps filled the cupboard above my kitchen range.
That day I was heating oil for fried chicken when my mind took temporary leave. There was a flash and there was a fire. My mind raced back when the alarm harkened me from another room. Black smoke licked the recesses of the kitchen and quickly found routes to the rest of the house. The flames were still confined to my skillet but were stretching furiously towards the dried flower arrangement with which I foolishly decorated the cupboard ledge high above the range. Little beads of burning grease sprayed from the central flame like volcanic bombs.
Panicky, I talked to myself, "Call the fire department! No time. Get it out! Get it out before those flowers catch!"
"Lid, lid, where's the lid for that skillet?" It was in the drawer under the oven and I dared not go under those flames to fetch.
"Salt! Salt will smother a grease fire." I knew my Morton's was somewhere in my pantry and I also knew that I had no time to search that pantry.
Instinctively, then, I grabbed that skillet handle with my bare hands and despite the sparks and the raging five-foot-flame, I carried the monster through the dining room.. My thought had been to take it out the patio door there. But there were curtains over that door, I realized when I got there, and the flames would catch those curtains.
So I walked the pan back to the stove. Through the accumulation of thick black smoke I saw my dried arrangement flare and I knew I was in big trouble. So I grabbed the phone but could not manage to both dial 911 and also send and I couldn't see in the smoke and I wasn't able to concentrate.
In the meantime, the dried arrangement had been consumed, the flames were crawling across the top of my cupboards and my kitchen ceiling was burning. Suddenly, belatedly, I remembered the fire extinguisher that I had mounted in my pantry years before. I snatched the extinguisher with one hand while I heaved the frustrating phone with the other. Now I was in control.
Not really. Frantically I struggled to free the trigger lever. Using all of my force, it wouldn't budge. "How in the hell do I work this thing?" When I threw down the fire extinguisher to try the phone once more, something fell off the canister and the lever raised all by itself. "The pin! The pin! I forgot the pin! Thank God!"
And aiming that thing at the skillet fire, I let 'er rip. Three shots of white powder and the stove fire was out. Only one blast remained for the cupboard and ceiling fires, however, and that was not enough. They flared again immediately.
However, I had gained on that fire enough to dial that phone again, more calmly, and while I shrieked my distress to the various 911 dispatchers, I frantically threw containers of water at the remaining flames. Those fires fought me as hard as I fought them, springing back each time I stopped to refill. Victory was mine in the end, however, and I was able to greet the arriving fire trucks from my front yard.
Things were a dreadful mess, of course. My kitchen ceiling was completely blackened. The smoke had roiled and rolled an acrid stench and an oily residue throughout my house. Surfaces were further coated with the powdery, yet gummy residue of fire extinguisher chemicals. The firemen were amazed to learn that I single-handedly extinguished the inferno and limited the loss to surface damage. Heck, even the cookies were safe! The fire had merely scorched their cupboard door when it leapt to the dried arrangement.
The responders had only to relax while huge fans suctioned the smoke from my home. It seemed a good opportunity to offer: "Would you fellows care for some gingersnap cookies?" Because my words croaked out on puffs of smoky breath like dragon speak, the firemen summarily whisked me away by ambulance for smoke inhalation treatment. I saw myself in a mirror there, at least I think it was me. There stood this black thing with huge white eyes! When I washed my hands, I saw the shape of the skillet handle in both palms. I had switched hands as I crossed the room. One layer of skin was pealing, but I felt no pain and those burns required no attention. I was one lucky woman!
When I was allowed to return home, Aunt Julia's gingersnaps were long gone. Although neither the fire nor its heat had touched them and they seemed snug within their little wrappers, the restoration crew thought the cookies were likely permeated by toxic chemicals. Along with everything else in my kitchen of cardboard, plastic or cellophane composition, those final gingersnaps had gone into the dumpster.
So until next Christmas at least, I am freed from the awkward bulk of those cookies. I am also freed from my false appreciation and consequent guilt. I have the fire to thank.
Only trusted family members have been told about that fire, however. Were Aunt Julia to learn of it, she might well send her comfort in a special off-season box of individually-packaged gingersnaps!
We invite submissions from writers.
» The story or poem should not be over 2000 words and must be your own original work. All submissions must be word processed and emailed to us at our email address.
» Submissions must include your complete contact information: Name, Telephone, Email, Mailing Address.
» Please also include a short biography and if possible a small photo of yourself.
» The anonymity of all that submit a story or poem will be respected. Contact details supplied as part of your submission will not be disclosed to any third party.
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