It was ... interesting.

"Activating the hyper accelerator!" I proclaim, flipping the switch with my thumb as I speak and aiming for the oven's mouth.  I reverse my actions almost instantly.  Not because my father, standing safely behind and to one side of me, says,
    "But be careful."  I do it because at the same instant I am suddenly standing in a cloud of ash.  Coughing, I lower the "hyper accelerator" to the ground and begin brushing black flakes from my skirt. 
    My dad is grinning at me. 
    "Not to aim it straight at the opening at first," he finishes.
    "Yeah, thanks," I reply, but I am grinning as well and suddenly we are both laughing. 
    I lift the leaf-blower again, making certain that it is pointed far away from the opening and gradually move it sideways until the flames begin flowing off the logs and sliding around the edges of the cement doorway.  Occasionally, I glance towards my father, which causes us to break out into laughter every time. 
    The baklava that I pull out of the oven later in the afternoon looks nice enough.  The filo dough has become crisp and golden, cracking at the touch of the knife.  However, my decision to not sweep the ashes out of the oven have proven fatal to the flavor.  The smokiness that added so much flavor to last week's dinner is out of place in this cheese and pastry concoction.  Add that to the fact that the ricotta cheese the recipe called for is one of my least enjoyed textures for food and the baklava is perilously near inedible.  I have had my share of disasters in the kitchen, from using granulated instead of powdered sugar, to burning things to a crisp out of forgetfulness.  This baklava, however, I will remember for different reasons.  I will remember it for that moment of utter and complete pleasure, stemming from my first mistake of the day. 
    I am certain that I was an amusing picture, swinging the leaf blower up, after my dramatic announcement, then having my hair and dress blown back in the sudden rush of air and ash.  That is half of the reason we are standing here, overcome with the need to laugh.  Bt there is more going on than that.  I laugh because I am glad that I amused him, even if I am slightly embarrassed, glancing toward the house and hoping that none of our guests saw.  I know he is not laughing at me, but at the results of my overly hasty actions.  There is no contempt, no mockery, we are simply sharing honest amusement and the joy of each other's company.  I love him, he loves me, and we laugh.