FLAMES AND SECOND CHANCES
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| A really angry kitchen |
Today I woke up wanting to write about Mar del Plata. My city’s birthday—the one that watched me grow up between the waves and the wind. But life, ever the trickster, decided today would also be the day I nearly turned into a human torch. Yes, you read that right. And no, it’s not a metaphor.
It all started with a stove burner. Or rather, my chronic clumsiness. Around 9 AM, I turned on the hob to heat water for *mate*. I turned away for *one second*—not three, one—to grab the kettle, and when I looked back, flames were crawling up my jumper as if it were kindling. At first, I didn’t understand. I felt heat on my back and thought, “Is the sun hitting that hard?” *No, this is Ushuaia!* Then the stench of burnt fabric hit me.
Panic set in. My body reacted before my brain did: I shook myself like a wet dog, but the fire clung to my clothes like I owed it money. My hands trembled as the heat licked the nape of my neck. Don’t ask me how, but I managed to rip off the jumper like it was someone else’s skin. I threw it on the floor and stomped until only a black, smouldering patch remained. Then I noticed: half my hair was singed, the back of my shirt in tatters, and a tingling neck that still twinges with discomfort.
The worst part wasn’t the scare. Nor the burnt-hair stench that still haunts me. The worst was standing there, staring at the ashen jumper, thinking: “Mariano, at 40, you’ve lost a screw.” How didn’t I notice? When did routine become so automatic that danger slipped by? I laughed—half-hysterically—as I scooped up the remains with a dustpan. Thank God we dress like onions here in Ushuaia: without the three layers underneath, I’d be writing this from a hospital bed.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Sometimes life sends these brutal wake-up calls. Like it’s saying, “Mate, you’re *that* checked out?” So, while cleaning up my favourite jumper’s remains (RIP), I thought of my Mar del Plata, my happy city. Those summers running barefoot on southern beaches, fearless, sand like a lifeline. Now, 3000 kilometres away, I burn myself over a hob. Time makes us sharper at some things and dumber at others.
The odd part? Mid-chaos, there was a flicker of clarity. Once the fire was out, leaning against the counter, shaking, I felt something like… relief? Euphoria? Not sure. But for a second, everything—the burnt smell, frazzled hair, racing pulse—reminded me I’m alive. Still that same kid who raced into the sea, just greyer and slower.
So today, my city’s birthday, I toast to second chances. To layers that save us, hobs that teach us, and scares that reignite gratitude for the obvious. And yes, to Mar del Plata: to its sunsets that never fade, even when we sometimes do.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy a kitchen fire extinguisher. And maybe an electric hob.
PS: Don’t tell my mother.
It all started with a stove burner. Or rather, my chronic clumsiness. Around 9 AM, I turned on the hob to heat water for *mate*. I turned away for *one second*—not three, one—to grab the kettle, and when I looked back, flames were crawling up my jumper as if it were kindling. At first, I didn’t understand. I felt heat on my back and thought, “Is the sun hitting that hard?” *No, this is Ushuaia!* Then the stench of burnt fabric hit me.
Panic set in. My body reacted before my brain did: I shook myself like a wet dog, but the fire clung to my clothes like I owed it money. My hands trembled as the heat licked the nape of my neck. Don’t ask me how, but I managed to rip off the jumper like it was someone else’s skin. I threw it on the floor and stomped until only a black, smouldering patch remained. Then I noticed: half my hair was singed, the back of my shirt in tatters, and a tingling neck that still twinges with discomfort.
The worst part wasn’t the scare. Nor the burnt-hair stench that still haunts me. The worst was standing there, staring at the ashen jumper, thinking: “Mariano, at 40, you’ve lost a screw.” How didn’t I notice? When did routine become so automatic that danger slipped by? I laughed—half-hysterically—as I scooped up the remains with a dustpan. Thank God we dress like onions here in Ushuaia: without the three layers underneath, I’d be writing this from a hospital bed.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Sometimes life sends these brutal wake-up calls. Like it’s saying, “Mate, you’re *that* checked out?” So, while cleaning up my favourite jumper’s remains (RIP), I thought of my Mar del Plata, my happy city. Those summers running barefoot on southern beaches, fearless, sand like a lifeline. Now, 3000 kilometres away, I burn myself over a hob. Time makes us sharper at some things and dumber at others.
The odd part? Mid-chaos, there was a flicker of clarity. Once the fire was out, leaning against the counter, shaking, I felt something like… relief? Euphoria? Not sure. But for a second, everything—the burnt smell, frazzled hair, racing pulse—reminded me I’m alive. Still that same kid who raced into the sea, just greyer and slower.
So today, my city’s birthday, I toast to second chances. To layers that save us, hobs that teach us, and scares that reignite gratitude for the obvious. And yes, to Mar del Plata: to its sunsets that never fade, even when we sometimes do.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy a kitchen fire extinguisher. And maybe an electric hob.
PS: Don’t tell my mother.
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