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Today I started a kitchen fire.

We’ve got all kinds of activities tonight, so I decided to get ahead of the dinner-time rush by making dinner this morning.

I had hot oil in a pan, and was putting rice noodles in to stir fry, but the starchy water dripped out first and a column of fire blasted up from the pan towards our ceiling.

And this is why I suddenly do not believe in evolution.

Because I stood there watching fire burst forth from my stove and you know what I thought of?

Not, “Where’s the fire extinguisher?”

Not, “I should get water.”

Not, “Maybe I should put down these noodles or something.”

The only thought going through my head as my feet were anchored to the Pergo was, “There’s a fire! A fire! Oh! Oh! It’s fire! Fire! Oh! There’s a fire!”

How did generations of my ancestors survive with this spectacular piece of crisis thinking? How can we be hundreds or thousands of years in the making of the blood line that can only identify a threat, but not flee from it, or neutralize it?

The fire went out, and I thought, “Fire’s out,” and I scanned the kitchen for damage. There was none thankfully.

But now I find myself in the position of refuting years of modern science, and I already had a lot to do today.

Or maybe Darwin was right, and I’m supposed to be the end of that line? That’s not comforting at all, either.