Forget Gordon Ramsay. For me, one of the worst kitchen nightmares happened when I was about 12 years old. My brother Johnny was about 8.
The family had gathered around the kitchen table at exactly 5 p.m., which is when my father came home from work. Dinner was ready for him the second he walked in the door. We all took our assigned seats. My father sat at the head of the table, I sat on his left. My mother sat at the other end of the table, which was also closest to the refrigerator and stove. That way, she could easily jump up and get anything needed immediately. My little brother sat next to her.
We were methodically eating dinner, when suddenly my brother jumped up, darted around the back of my mother, around me, and fell on the floor between me and my father.
He landed face-up, and was pointing at his puffed out cheeks. Apparently he had tried to make it to the bathroom to vomit, but was not quick enough.
Johnny kept pointing at his cheeks. Finally, my mother came over, and said “let it out, let it out.” He finally relaxed and let it out.
My little brother was so afraid of getting hit for being sick, that he tried so hard not to make a mess on the floor.
This is one of many kitchen nightmares that occurred in our house while I was growing up.