Hoisted by my own petard

Last night for dinner, Delta baked us pizzas as is our Sunday ritual.

"Make sure you wait five minutes, they're hot!" he warned, as he pulled them out the oven and set them on the table before us.

But I was so hungry, and the pizzas just looked so inviting. (Besides, waiting for food to cool is for chickens and sissies). So while he was watching telly, I snuck a little nibble. Didn't seem that hot. So I shoved a whole hunk of it into my mouth in one greedy gobble.

And oh my gawd, I have never experienced heat of this intensity in my life. "You ok?" Delta asked. But I could only gasp and weep like a leaky faucet. Not unlike the time I'd shoved a handful of wasabi peas into my mouth, but we don't like to refer to that incident anymore.

I discovered this morning, once I had regained enough sensitivity in my mouth to actually do a quick poke-around with my tongue, that I had scalded a fair share of the upper mandible. I wasn't too worried about it, I guess I knew that in the long run, it would heal. Or else, Death by Pizza I suppose was not a bad way to go.

Then with much awaited excitement this afternoon, I picked up my subway sandwich for lunch. Subway is my fallback when Metro isn't available to have lunch with. Of course, I have my grievances with Subway (they have a 5$ footlong but no discount for the six inchers - I mean, what's that about), but it is what it is. I picked up my sub, packed it with Baked Lays in typical infantile fashion, and shoved it in my mouth with all the excitement of a five year old.

And - ow, ow, ouch. All nine grains in that 9-grain bread, and every chip I'd stuffed into the sandwich, poked at the roof of my mouth with suspicious enthusiasm. It felt as though grenades were bursting like pop rocks in my mouth.

But as I've long since learnt, when I've been hoisted by my own petard, there's not much to do but keep mum about it. Especially when it hurts the mouth to do otherwise.