I AM ORDAINED A HIGH PRIEST (REVISED)

I wonder whether Aaron the biblical High Priest perpetually had second-degree burns over his hands from frying up sacrifices in olive oil. Better yet, am I ordained a High Priest because of all the times I sear myself while I attempt to cook with scorching olive oil? If so, then last week I was anointed with that holy unguent and declared High Priest by a congregation of ten burly, very gentile gentiles.

The scenario: One of my Bar Mitzvah students, Jacob, is a little more eccentric than most 13-year-olds. He reviews his portion of the service with gusto only after he has spent an hour with me in the kitchen. On that momentous day, we were planning to make beef-barley soup. We were about to sauté onions in EVOO (“Extra Virgin Olive Oil,” for you who don’t watch that cutesy parakeet, Rachael Ray, chirping about it along with her dog food. Jealous? Moi?)

In an instant, flames leapt from the pot. Shoving Jacob out of the way (a good instinct), I stuck my hand in the fire (a bad instinct) and burned it to what I was sure what be a charcoal crisp. Miraculously, I escaped with only two half-inch burns.

Being a denizen of the upper middle class, our house is equipped with the biggest and most hypersensitive alarm system, 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 anemic that he couldn’t save my labradoodle Minnie from a titmouse. I calmly told him that no other emergency services were required.

Too late. The fire department had already snaked its way down our narrow lane with its hook-and-ladder. Out of the truck leapt six sumo firefighters, oxygen tanks strapped to their backs, 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. “Not necessary,” I protested.

But, shortly thereafter, three EMTs arrived in their ambulance. They were required by law, they said, to examine me. Before I knew it, they were taking my blood pressure. Then they discovered the scar on my chest from my pacemaker. Jackpot. 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 ten men and women of emergency crews, a quorum for worship. Law required that I be taken to the hospital, they said.

So off I go in a gurney to the ER, where I was once again meticulously examined, and then waited an hour to have salve schmered on my gaping wounds. The EMTs, firefighters, and cops stood by watchfully.

Jacob, of course, was petrified. His mother had arrived to pick him up. As I was being wheeled out on the stretcher, mother and son dutifully followed behind, offering me reassurance and asking me whom they should call. An audience of curious neighbors, God bless them, gathered outside. By the time my Linda returned from the office and picked me up from the ER, our doorstep was laden with aluminum pans full of meatloaf, fried chicken, the ubiquitous tuna salad, and brownies, all gifts of goodwill from the Bob Jones families surrounding us.

Can you comprehend the significance of that momentous occasion? I had been twice anointed High Priest, once by olive oil, then by life-saving unction, in the presence of my motley, burly 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 Jacob return? Of course. But only after I promise we continue our culinary adventures only if we make something innocent, like fruit salad.

No! No! Watch out for that Santoku! It might slip and cut your . . . oh, nooooo . . .