The Casserole That Kept Time

Aunt Mildred, bless her cotton socks, always brought her 'special' casserole to family gatherings. This year, it was a magnificent, bubbling edifice of what she vaguely referred to as 'surprise ingredients.' My mother, ever the gracious host, took the first polite bite, a smile plastered on her face that I knew from experience meant 'this tastes like regret.'

Suddenly, a small, insistent beep began to emanate from the casserole itself. Not from Aunt Mildred's phone, which was currently wedged under her left armpit, but *from the food*. Uncle Barry, a man whose primary contribution to any conversation was a well-timed snort, leaned in closer. 'Is that... a timer?' he grunted.

Aunt Mildred's eyes widened. 'Oh dear! I must have forgotten to remove the cooking timer from the packaging of the pre-made pastry crust! It was a new brand, you see, very convenient, just "pop it in and bake!"'

The beeping grew louder, more frantic. My cousin Timmy, a budding engineer, declared, 'It's building to a crescendo! We might have a culinary bomb on our hands!'

My father, ever the pragmatist, grabbed a serving spoon. 'Everyone clear the blast zone!' he commanded, dramatically scooping the offending pastry-timer hybrid onto a separate plate, where it continued its mournful, increasingly rapid beeps until, with a final, triumphant *BEEP-BEEP-BEEEEEEEEP*, it died.

The silence that followed was broken only by my mother's sigh and Aunt Mildred's embarrassed giggle. 'Well,' Aunt Mildred chirped, 'at least we know it was thoroughly cooked!' We all burst out laughing, the tension breaking. The casserole, surprisingly, wasn't terrible, though every bite thereafter was met with a wary glance and a slight twitch. We decided from then on, all future casseroles would undergo a metal detector scan. Just in case.