I only have two real fears in life. Sure, like everyone else, I dislike the usual suspects—heights, creepy bugs, drowning, the DMV. But my true fears are far less reasonable. One of them is Coke Zero. Don’t ask.

The other—and the one I want to talk about today—is pierogies. Laugh if you want, but I have my reasons.

Thirty five ago, I was a pierogie connoisseur. A professional. A craftsman. My routine was sacred: pan-fry each little doughy pocket of cheese-and-potato perfection in roughly half a gallon of vegetable oil, bury them under a snowstorm of salt, then make a direct sprint to the couch. No detours. No witnesses. I usually consumed six to eight in a sitting. Solo. Focused. Invincible.

I was immortal.

Until one Sunday afternoon, when everything changed.

It was a hot summer day at my mom’s house. I was home from college, living the proud tradition of deadbeat sons everywhere. Mom had gone to the NASCAR race at Pocono with my brother and a few others. I chose to stay behind, watch the race on TV, and host what can only be described as Pierogie-Palooza.

I followed my usual process: eight pierogies, fried to golden perfection, aggressively salted. I filled a large glass with Diet Coke (this was before I discovered Coke Zero, but that’s a separate tragedy), plopped onto the couch, and turned on the race.

I couldn’t tell you a single thing about that race. All I remember is the blissful union of carbs, fat, and salt hitting my tongue. The smell of fried glory. The taste of empty calories and future regret. I ate every last one and slipped into a pierogie coma. It was Zen. Pure, greasy enlightenment.

Then I smelled something else.

At first, I tried to ignore it. Maybe it would go away. It did not. A cold wave of dread washed over me as I realized my life was about to take a sharp turn. That’s when I saw the smoke drifting in from the kitchen.

In my haste to reach the ninth plane of starch heaven, I had forgotten to turn off the pan. The pan containing—let me remind you—a shit ton of vegetable oil.

I rushed into the kitchen and managed to put out the fire just in time. Disaster averted, I told myself. Close call. No harm done.

Then I looked around.

Oh shit.

The smoke had lovingly redecorated the kitchen, painting a thick black film across the once-white walls and cabinets.

Oh shit… she’ll be home soon.

My brain briefly tried humor. *Well, at least you’re not a little kid anymore or you’d be getting the beating of your life.* Ha. Thanks, brain. Super helpful.

But this was serious. For one terrifying moment, I genuinely wondered if my mother might still beat the hell out of her 21-year-old son. (Looking back, I think I could’ve taken her—but at the time, I didn’t want to test that theory.)

I had to clean it. Quickly. She’d walk in and it would be like nothing ever happened.

I grabbed a bucket, filled it with water and some cleaner, and got to work. By the second or third swipe on the wall, reality hit me hard: this shit was NOT coming off.

My heart started racing. Was this karma? Payback for the time I “accidentally” put my car in neutral and rolled it into our house on the South Side? Everyone was just happy I survived that one—no punishment. Maybe this was the universe settling the score.

I saw my future flash before my eyes.

This would be my legacy.

“Jimmy almost burned the house down cooking pierogies.”

Family gatherings would never be the same. Job interviews would somehow bring it up. At my wedding, people would throw pierogies instead of rice. And worst of all, I was certain my mom would have the Mrs. T pierogie logo etched into my tombstone.

So what did I do?

I dumped the bucket in the sink. Opened the windows. Went back to the couch. Finished the race.

I haven’t touched a pierogie since. I can’t even look at one without being transported back to that helpless moment. Yes—I am afraid.

To this day, I’m still the butt of the joke at family get-togethers. But I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face when she walked in and saw the aftermath.

There was so much I wanted to say.

All I managed was:

“So… how was the race?”