FLASH! IMMOLATED CHEF ANOINTED AS HIGH PRIEST

I seriously wonder whether Aaron the High Priest constantly had second-degree burns over his hands from frying up his sacrifices with olive oil. Better yet, do I become a Kohen Gadol because of all the times that I scald myself while I am attempting to cook with scorching olive oil? If so, then last week I was anointed with holy unguent and declared Kohen Gadol by a congregation of ten . . . er, uh . . . goyim.

The scenario: One of my Bar Mitzvah students is a little more eccentric than most 13-year-olds. He chants his Sidra only after he has spent time with me in the kitchen. On that one fateful day, we had planned to make a beef-barley soup. We were about to sauté some onions in EVOO (“extra virgin olive oil,” for you who don’t watch that chirping parakeet, Rachel Ray. Jealous? Me? Nah.)

Just then, flames leapt out of pot. While shoving my Bar-Mitzvah bochur to safety, I stuck my hand in the fire and burned it to what I assumed was glowing charcoal. Thanks be to God that miraculously I escaped with only two half-inch burns. Pin a medal on me. Hoo hah, such a hero.

Being of the upper middle class, our house, of course, is equipped with the biggest and best alarm, which instantly alerts the fire department every time I fry an egg.
I had already well doused the fire and sufficiently attended to my burns, when a police captain banged on the front door. He apparently handled these matters because he was so scrawny that he couldn’t save my dog from a titmouse. I calmly told him that no other emergency services were required.

By then, though, the fire department had already snaked its way down our narrow lane with a hook-and-ladder truck. Out of the truck leapt six firefighters, each dressed in full regalia and looking like a sumo, insisting on inspecting the house. They spied the minor burns on my hand and announced that they were obliged to have EMS come to check me out.

Shortly thereafter, three EMT’s arrived in their truck. They were required, they said, to examine me. Before I knew it, they were taking my blood pressure. Oh boy, they discovered that I had a pacemaker. So they demanded that I lie down and let them take an EKG – all for two half-inch burns.

By then, our kitchen was overrun by a minyan of emergency crews. Now they demanded that I be taken to the hospital. Upon arrival I was again checked out and waited an hour to have some salve schemed on my grievous wounds. The EMTs, firefighters, and cops stood by attentively.

My Bar Mitzvah student of course was aghast. By then, his mother had arrived to pick him up. As I was being wheeled out on the stretcher, they followed behind, assuring that they would pray for me. An audience of curious neighbors, God bless them, gathered outside. By the time that the petrified Linda picked me up, our doorstep was laden with aluminum pans full of meatloaf, fried chicken, the ubiquitous tuna salad, and brownies. As I say, God bless them.

Do you comprehend the significance of that momentous occasion? I had been anointed as the Kohen Gadol by olive oil, then by life-saving unction in the hospital in the presence of my motley congregation of ten weary caregivers.

Will I burn myself again? Of course. Just that this time, I will have disconnected my fire alarm. Will my intrepid Bar Mitzvah bochur return? Of course. But only after I promise that we continue our culinary ventures only if we make something innocent, like fruit salad.

No! No! Be careful with that knife!

P.S. God bless those lifesavers who were ready to save my life.