I had everything on the counter I needed:
flour, sugar, brown sugar, said oil and shortening,
salt, cream of tartar, eggs...
...and the New Oxford Book of Carols
right beside the candles.
You know, to double-check the lyrics to
"E la don don Verges Maria" so I could sing along.
Loudly. And correctly.
Everything was going so well. Several batches were cooling on the counter. One batch was waiting on cookie sheets on the counter...beside the candles...
Yeah, you can tell where this is going, can't you?
I was doing some dishes when I smelled something burning. It wasn't the cookies in the oven; I'd just put them in there. When I turned around, I saw that Harry had jumped up on the counter and was standing over the candles to get to the cookie dough. And he was smoking on both sides.
HE WAS ON FIRE AND HE DIDN'T CARE BECAUSE HE WAS GETTING TO EAT COOKIES.
After much screaming (me) and hissy-hissy-hissing (him) and hosing him down and finding (relief) that he wasn't hurt and cutting off his burned fur and opening the doors and windows to get the smell out and tossing out two pans of cookie dough...
...I gave up. I baked the last batch of cookies and closed up the bakery. Harry sulked in the corner, nursing his pride and mourning the loss of huge hunks of glorious white hair on his sides.
Oh, merry. So Harry-merry.