Burn, baby, burn

Every time I deliver a hot plate (lasagna, baked ravioli, chicken guadalupe, etc.) to a table with a baby in a sling at it, I think about what would happen if I accidentally tipped the plate of sizzling food onto the skin of the giggling little cherub. In a completely non-malicious way that has nothing to do with my aversion toward children.

I can see it all happening, the angle of the plate as I reach across the table, the widening eyes of the patrons as they see the 10-layer lasagna about to fall, the cry -oh, the cry- of the scalded infant. Jaws fall open, plates drop, onlookers turn their heads.

I think about it every. time.