Putting out fires.

Remember the dumpster fire in Durango? The only injuries sustained were my skinned knees from tripping in my Birks. My students thought I’d finally lost it, when I ran down the hallway, breaking glass with my elbow to get the fire extinguisher, wearing blue scrubs and a sweatshirt.

Or, or, or… that time in college when that guy put votives on the corners of his bed and then locked himself out of his room. And the candle fell onto his highly flamable leopard print shag throw. And how the firemen had to rip toilets out of the floor to get enough drainage for the sprinkler water?

Or.

Tonight, when I noticed that all the kids at the kids table were standing up staring at the candle. And the flames were moving a little wierd and I realized that it wasn’t candles, but maybe a fire. I ran across the social hall, dumped a pitcher of ice water onto the burning basket of challah, and returned to my table. I didn’t say anything, just left the kids with challah covered in ice water. But no fire and no injuries. Later one of the dads said, “Leah, if the Bears have as strong a running game as you do, we’ll be in good shape this weekend.”

Maybe, just maybe, the kids shouldn’t have shabbat candles on their table.

Shabbat shalom.

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