Where there's Smoke.

What the hell did you put on that roast?

When you’re standing at the very top of a ladder hanging Christmas lights and your new bride looks like this – charred remnants of eyebrows and eyelashes falling like snow on to a heat-seared face framed in a halo of tight, ashy curls – the wisest strategy is to listen before laughing.

My husband was a very smart man.

When you go from single to couple, life becomes a delicate balancing act. And no matter how you slice the pie, no one is satisfied with their serving. When we started our life together, we did what any young couple does. We upended holiday traditions and aggravated mothers and mother-in-laws. And we started with Thanksgiving. Not only did we decide to stay home, we tossed the traditional turkey-and-trimmings spread for a simple roast.

Looking back I must admit that a rum-soaked roast is mouthwatering. But it would have been nice if he had diffused the alcohol before popping it in the oven. Maybe a wall of blue flames wouldn’t have shot out when I opened the door. Maybe I wouldn’t have been standing there on the verge of tears, covered in my own ashes. Maybe I wouldn’t have placed all kitchen duties involving flames, charcoal, gas and propane in his domain from that point forward.

I wouldn’t be frozen in a patio standoff with the barbecue.

Littered with dirt, debris and neglect, the grilling tools are exactly where he left them and a splash of BBQ sauce has faded unnoticeably into the stucco wall. Under the lid, the grill is dirty with residue. This was his domain, and I am once again angry at him for leaving me with this mess.

Why my children have suddenly decided that they must have barbecued hamburgers on the patio – today – I don’t know. But, I do know this.

I have the fire department on speed dial.