I, like any self-respecting American male, let my wife do all the cooking. It’s just a man thing; we can’t cook. Sure, there is an occasional Emeril Lagasse among us, but for the most part, men cannot properly prepare a bowl of cold cereal. And those who can cook usually are ashamed because their male friends view cooking as a feminine task.

Unfortunately, the same man who would readily admit that he cannot boil water without risking a small kitchen fire also possesses just enough alpha-male testosterone to feel macho when he cooks something he killed. Your typical man won’t step into the kitchen all year long, until he kills a deer. Then he ruins perfectly good venison, thanks to his attitude that the mean cannot possibly be good unless it is he who cooks it.

So that was how I wound up in the kitchen on a fateful April evening several years ago. What made me believe I could deep-fry that turkey, I haven’t a clue. In any event, I had turned on my kettle of grease, to allow it to get hot enough for cooking. Meanwhile, I decided to check my email while I waited. One thing led to another, and I wound up on an online hunting discussion forum talking with such world-renowned people as Goose17 and Grashopper (who really spells his name with one S instead of two). That was my first mistake. Never — repeat, never — leave the kitchen with hot grease simmering on the stove.

After some time of discussing my game plan for the next day’s hunt, it dawned on me that my grease had been heating for a good many minutes. Leaping from my chair, I said something to the effect of, “$%&!#$!” and headed for the kitchen at a dead run.

Just as I rounded the corner, I saw flames whoosh from the kettle. The grease had over-heated, catching fire. The flames leapt from the kettle, licking the wallpaper over the stove. I let out what must’ve closely resembled the mating call of a hyena as I dove into the cabinet to find a lid with which to smother the flames. After dropping a cast-iron skillet on my toes (those injuries never heal, do they?) and throwing 15 pieces of cookeware across the floor, I decided that the lid didn’t have to be a perfect fit. So, I grabbed a cookie sheet and slammed it over the kettle, extinguishing the flame.

I thanked God that the fire was out as I grabbed a wet cloth to put out the still-glowing wallpaper over the stove. The house smelled of charred Sheetrock and my lungs were burning from inhaling smoke. But, hallelujah! The fire was out.

Presently, I decided to take the lid off the kettle. That was my second mistake. Fire needs oxygen to burn. The point of the lid is to cut off the oxygen. Removing said lid allows more oxygen to the fuel. I removed the lid from the kettle for a couple of seconds, then replaced it. A moment later, BOOM! The cookie sheet nearly bounced off the range hood, almost taking off my left ear in the process. The fire was reignited.

Common sense would have said that simply recovering the lid and placing it back on the kettle would have extinguished the fire once more. But something — the lid whizzing past my skull like a deadly projectile, maybe — caused me to forget common sense. I squealed (and probably didn’t sound a whole lot unlike a girl at a horror movie), and wasn’t completely sure that I hadn’t wet myself. I grabbed the kettle with a pot holder, in the process singeing all the hair from my knuckles as the flames leapt heartily from the kettle.

With the pot in hand, I ran for the back door. Note: Do not slosh grease! Especially burning grease! Melted holes in the linoleum are an eye-sore, and landladies do not much care for them either.

After dancing on my tiptoes, I finally reached it to the back door. Stepping onto the deck, I slung the grease into the backyard, then turned to go back into the house. And I had just made my third mistake.

As I turned, I heard the “whoosh!” that arose from behind me, then saw the back of the house illuminated. Another note: If you’re going to rake leaves, don’t leave the leaves just off the back porch. More importantly, remember where you left the leaves. Above all, don’t pour flaming grease into the dead leaves!

By now, quite an attraction was being created. Neighbors gathered around doorways, windows and their porches to watch an idiot clad in boxers and a t-shirt in 35-degree weather, dancing barefoot around a small bonfire, beating out burning leaves with a shovel.

But the fire was out. You would have thought that my kindly neighbors would have lent a hand. Instead, they merely stood by, some laughing, some staring incredulously. One did take the initiative to call the fire department. Bless his heart.

A couple of weeks went by and the raspy, rattling sounds coming from my lungs began to clear, some of the swelling had gone down in my toes, and the hair was starting to reappear on my hands. A rug nicely covered the hole in the linoleum and the singed wallpaper hardly even showed. I was none the worse for wear for my experience.

I said all that to say this (and if you don’t believe my true story, you can just stop reading right now): If you’re a male, and you feel the urge to go into the kitchen to cook something . . . don’t. Just don’t. If you’re bound and determined, as my momma used to say, then make sure you have adult supervision on hand. And by adult supervision, I don’t mean another male holding a Michelob and offering words of encouragement. I mean a female who has actually successfully turned flour and eggs into a cake before.

Finally, if you do have an experience like the one I described, take it to heart and learn from it. I didn’t. And that’s what brought about the matter of the exploding chili a few months later . . . but that’s a story for another day.