7200
Both parents possessed pedigreed panache
(But especially my father – the renowned Chemist
B.B. Harris and to a slightly lesser extent
The late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky - the gal whose troth thy now octogenarian
widower papa pledged, while holding some
bubbling sinister looking flask in hand while
both donned a trumpeting finessed affianced
doctored formula to marry, when both partook
of a blind date. This combustible trans union
link analogous to their representative first electric
kool aid basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting a retinue of revered sons
and daughters, whose ken hopefully burned with
the passion KRISPR incubated, inculcated, and
incurred that genetic outlook ideally transmitted
to prolific brood of begotten babes. This kid felt dis
embers crackling, popping, and snapping with a yen
that burned from within and without buns sin burner
of this cingular earthlinked son. No matter tentative
to experiment willy-nilly (wonka like) with rather
explosive materiel, I received truckloads of ammunition
(in tandem with benevolent benediction) to foster
dare devil and derelict pyromaniac precocity.
Those initial awkward formative forays assaying,
assessing and carefully calibrating this, that or the
other liquid or powdery substance found me meticulously
measuring and weighing the substances using kitchen
midden malodorous kid gloves. Frequent disappointment
arose from yours truly as well as momma and papa when
the net result (of these early attempts to blend powders
and/or liquids) merely fizzled and self extinguished into
a near inaudible poof. Continual daily practice (would
lead the way for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)
after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e. uber vaporous
wisps yawping banshee like holograms, or the equivalent
of 10,000 maniacs) eventually bore successful fruit in
the form of near perfect results. Success in the hotly
contested field sans Pyrotechnics requires a striking
resemblance to any other vocation. One must be able,
eager, ready and willing to maintain that burning passion
no matter unforeseen setbacks or heat from objection
able source. Yes, there would be an errant conflagration
(sometimes set purposely by an adjunct professor) as
an object lesson to master usage of fire extinguisher/fighter,
a vital piece of equipment and evenhandedness for getting
hold instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)
to contain any runaway flame. I do sheepishly admit
that on occasion the outcome went awry. Nonetheless,
they prided their potential fire branded wizard in the making
with kudos and praise with DYNAMITE. Practice indiscriminately
creating unpredictable concoctions, these lethally marshaled
nonchalant opportunities provided quintessentially
random results though usually very wimpy in tandem
with the totally tubularly nerdy, freaky, and dorky boy.
As proof positive and proud testimony, they proudly pointed
(upward) to the kitchen ceiling. There handiworks practically
covered the entire ceiling with variegated splotches. These
scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show my kith and kin
unspecified years into the smoky future. Quite accurate to assume
that father and mother coached, goaded, and nurtured exploratory
ambitions and tried not to stifle (at least consciously or deliberately)
my early stage ambition toward a scientific artiste bent.
As a home schooled and to some extent self taught chemically
romanced muralist, I grew up (not surprisingly) in a Unitarian
household that paid close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.
The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and the pursuit of
understanding an underlying credo, which allowed, enabled and
provided one near endless experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.
Aside from nearly burning down the house amidst talking heads
practically in dire straits, an instinctive reflex found me immolating
myself, occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady, Schultz,
or Socrates, et cetera no frightful catastrophic outcomes occurred
thru the milieu of mixing deceptively harmless looking inert raw materials.
Trial and error (quite successful with the latter) via blithely cooking
dicey elements forming goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash
practically eliminated any pained regret to take daring risks (such
as getting married – ha) in later life. Despite this favorable and
lovable upbringing, my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor
of our family and an excellent chef boy r dee to boot) still managed
to insinuate (as gently as possible) the necessity to be careful when
igniting flammable materials lest some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.
She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling ever so slightly jittery
and uneasy with my slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics
and much preferred to steer my attention toward a safer hobby such
as the edible objet’s d’arts i.e., the much more drab field per how to
present and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal. Fondness
to prepare food and pretend to be a faux renowned cook (this confession
admitted rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually competed for
my most favorite avocation activity and spare leisure time.
In other words, this chap did relish designing his own recipes mainly
from leftovers in tandem with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic
compounds that filled numerous sized dishes and aged apothecary
bottles respectively. Without question though, the passion plus less
riskier factor to combine and potchka dry and wet ingredients together
did rank as a considerably safer medium that still allowed, enabled and
provided me an equal opportunity to test reactions, than those earlier
iterated potentially explosive hazards. Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading
overactive appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative outcomes
(even with purportedly innocuous looking household cleaning supplies
or easily acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an apocalypse
at three two four Level Road on one particular nasty occasion.
I anticipated domicile would become rent asunder, and reduced into
a Black and Decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for the grace of some divine
force no family members nor pets succumbed from smoke.
