One Hot Frittata!

I had a friend over for brunch yesterday. She herself could be Paula Deen's progeny, so I wanted to cook something semi-challenging to impress her. Well, I found out that the old adage still rings true, folks. Pride does go before a fall.

My initial thought was to make, via youtube instruction, The Perfect Omelette. What I created turned into more of a frittata, complete with sauteed mushrooms, a blend of cheeses, and fresh tomatoes. The end result was beautiful...for the food. You see, the cooking process was humming along wonderfully until I decided to transfer the first frittata from skillet to plate. I was deliberate in my sliding on of the oven mitt to retrieve the skillet from the broiling oven. The rotund gentleman with a New Jersey lilt had reminded me of that on the video. When he warned about putting on your mitt, I scoffed. Who would be idiotic enough to grab something out of a hot oven barehanded? So I sheathed my hand, pulled the lovely concoction out of the oven, placed it on the stove, and removed the mitt to busy myself with something else on the counter. When I returned to the stove to transfer the frittata to a plate, did I reinstate the mitt? Of course not. I seized the handle of the one-minute-out-of-the-broiler skillet with my gosh darn bare hand. HOLY RICE AND BEANS.

Needless to say my friend, who arrived a few moments later, had to help me finish cooking our brunch as I nursed my scalding hand on an ice pack. Thank goodness my husband keeps a stock of those in our freezer. Almost three hours and three ice packs later, my hand started to feel somewhat normal again. It officially stopped screaming at my nervous system by mid-afternoon. All that remains a day later and an oven mitt wiser are a few deep purple, mushy bruises that I'm praying won't blister. Mr. Home Video Chef Man, I think I owe you an apology.