Accidentally On Purpose

Something was burning.

Not “something might be burning,” not “is that a faint hint of smoke?” No—this was the kind of thick, unmistakable, coughing-inducing smoke that barreled out of an oven like it had been storing grudges inside.

Sam Ihle froze mid-paragraph, his Parker pen still tapping lightly against the edge of his notebook—one of the nice ones Danny Van Hoosier bought him so he’d stop chewing the caps off Bics like they were a nervous man’s chewing gum. The tapping stopped. His eyes narrowed. His nose twitched once, twice.

“...Jodie?” he called, with that level, slightly pained tone of a man who really wanted the answer to be anything except what he suspected.

From the kitchen came the frantic clang of metal, the fwump fwump fwump of someone fanning a smoke detector, and one very classic Jodie Williams-Ihle exclamation:

“I meant to do that!”

Sam sighed. “Of course you did.”

He set his pen down, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and walked to the kitchen—his sanctuary, her battleground—through a haze of gray smoke thick enough to qualify for its own zip code. The smoke detector shrieked overhead like a banshee with performance anxiety.

And there stood Jodie Elizabeth Williams-Ihle—five-foot-six, Audrey Hepburn-obsessed, eyeliner still impeccable despite the swirling chaos—holding a pan of what used to be chicken and now resembled charcoal briquettes with dreams.

Sam blinked. “Jodie… what happened?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she coughed dramatically, set the pan into the sink, turned on the faucet, and allowed the chicken to hiss like a dragon being defeated in a medieval tale.

Then, with the sweetest smile she could conjure, she said, “Well. Funny story.”

“Is it?” Sam asked, crossing his arms in his best imitation of Editor-in-Chief Pat McKean.

Jodie hesitated.

He raised an eyebrow—the eyebrow of a crime reporter who could smell lies the way sharks smell blood in water.

“Okay,” she admitted, finally. “Accidentally on purpose.”

Sam blinked again, slower this time. “Accidentally on—Jodie, what?”

She fluffed her hair as though this was a perfectly normal sentence. “I might have… intentionally burned the chicken.”

“Why?”

“So we can eat dinner at Uncle Pete’s Burgers, Shakes & Fries.”

Sam stared at her.

Jodie stared back.

The smoke detector kept screaming.

Finally, Sam sighed, reached up, grabbed a chair, climbed onto it, and mashed the button until the alarm stopped. Blissful silence fell, broken only by the faucet still hissing on the burnt chicken, like the universe itself was judging the situation.

He stepped down. “You burned dinner. On purpose. So we could go eat… burgers?”

She nodded innocently.

“Jodie,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose again—his second time tonight—“you could’ve just said you wanted Uncle Pete’s.”

She frowned at him. “No, I couldn’t!”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d say the responsible thing,” she said in her best imitation of his voice, “‘We have groceries. We should eat the food we already bought. The chicken’s thawed. We don’t waste money.’”

“That is a reasonable thing to say,” Sam argued.

“Yes,” she agreed, patting his chest affectionately, “and that’s exactly why I couldn’t let it happen.”

He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again because—okay, yes, she had him there. He was responsible. He didvalue not wasting groceries. And if the chicken was thawed, it should be cooked.

But now the chicken had gone to meet its ancestors in the Great Beyond.

“Let me get this straight,” Sam said, rubbing his temples. “You burned dinner—which will now smell up our home for two days—all so that we’d go to Uncle Pete’s?”

Jodie nodded brightly. “Pretty much!”

“And you didn’t think to… I don’t know… talk to me first?”

“Oh no, talking would’ve absolutely failed,” she said. “You know how you get on Wednesdays.”

He bristled. “How do I get on Wednesdays?”

“You get… very… German.”

He sputtered. “I—what does that mean?”

She waved a hand in a vague, circular motion. “Efficient. Responsible. Frugal. Focused. You put your glasses on the bridge of your nose and look stern.”

“I do not look stern,” Sam protested.

“You look like Clark Kent scolding someone,” she said, tugging his tie. “It’s adorable. But it also means no burgers.”

Sam opened his mouth—then paused. "Wednesdays are when I proofread crime statistics for the weekly column," he admitted reluctantly. "It does put me in a certain… mindset."

“Exactly!” Jodie said triumphantly. “You’re too logical on Wednesdays. But with the chicken… eliminated… we’re free.”

He stared at her for a long moment.

And then he laughed.

Because this—this—was marriage. Loving someone whose brain worked in spirals instead of lines. Someone who burned chicken on purpose so she could eat curly fries.

He pulled her close, brushing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And cute,” she added.

“And cute,” he agreed, unable to stop smiling. “But you know what this means?”

She blinked innocently. “Dinner date?”

“No, it means I get to tease you about this for the next ten years.”

Jodie gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. ‘Hey Jodie, remember when you burned an entire chicken just so we could eat burgers?’”

“Sam!”

He grinned. “Come on. Let’s go. Uncle Pete’s closes at nine.”

Her excitement was instant, unmistakable, and absolutely contagious. “I’ll get your coat!”

She bolted down the hallway.

Sam paused, looked back at the kitchen full of smoke, at the sad, smoldering remains of dinner, at the dish towel lying dramatically on the floor like it fainted from the stress.

He shook his head. “Accidentally on purpose,” he muttered to himself.

Then he followed his wife out the door.

Uncle Pete’s Burgers, Shakes & Fries sat on the corner of Harbor Street like it had been there since dinosaurs first developed a craving for curly fries. Yellow neon letters buzzed overhead, and the scent of grilled onions, toasted brioche buns, and secret-seasoning French fries wafted into the parking lot, beckoning all hungry souls who passed by.

Jodie practically skipped toward the door.

Sam followed at a normal, rational, not-even-remotely-skipping pace. “You know,” he said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, “it still amazes me that you burned an entire chicken to get here.”

Jodie twirled. “I regret nothing.”

“You will,” Sam said, “when we have to open every window in the apartment and the smoke smell still clings to the couch for three business days.”

She poked his side. “Worth it.”

Inside, Uncle Pete’s was lively as ever—retro red booths, checkerboard floor, photos of smiling patrons lining the walls, and a jukebox in the corner currently blasting The Beach Boys. The usual crew was working: Pete Jr. at the register, Aunt Laverne flipping patties like she was in a competitive sport, and Trevor—poor, overwhelmed, chronically frazzled Trevor—balancing milkshakes like juggling flaming torches.

“Evening, you two!” Pete Jr. called. “Long time no see.”

“It’s been five days,” Sam said.

“Exactly,” Pete Jr. replied. “Basically a lifetime.”

Jodie beamed. “We’re celebrating.”

Pete Jr. blinked. “Oh? Anniversary? Promotion? Someone finally won the fight for who gets the good side of the bed?”

“Dinner burned,” Sam said.

“Ah. Milestone indeed.”

They found a booth near the window. Sam slid into his seat, suspicious eyebrow raised. “So,” he said, leaning forward, “level with me.”

“Hmm?”

“You burned dinner so we could come here. But why today, specifically?”

She busied herself with the menu she absolutely did not need because she had the entire thing memorized. “No reason.”

He stared at her.

She kept the menu in front of her face like a shield.

Sam waited.

Jodie sighed. Lowered the menu. “Okay fine. There is a reason.”

“I knew it.”

She leaned in. “Uncle Pete’s released a new milkshake flavor.”

Sam stared. “...A milkshake.”

“A very important milkshake,” she corrected. “Limited edition. Seasonal. And only available for this week.”

“And you couldn’t just tell me that you wanted to try it?”

“No,” she said, offended. “Because then you would’ve asked why we couldn’t simply get it tomorrow. And then you’d remember the thawed chicken. And then—”

Sam held up a hand. “Okay, okay. I see where this is going.”

She brightened. “Good! Because honestly, burning the chicken was the easiest option.”

“Jodie.”

“Sam.”

He shook his head, trying very hard not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

Their server, Trevor, arrived with notepads and the palpable anxiety of someone who’d been on the receiving end of spilled milkshakes one too many times.

“Hi Jodie, hi Mr. Ihle, welcome back—wait, um—” Trevor sniffed. “Do you guys smell like smoke?”

Jodie winced. “We had… an accident.”

Sam coughed. “It was not an accident.”

“Accidentally on purpose,” she whispered.

Trevor blinked twice, decided it was none of his business, and opted to take their order.

“Two Classic Uncle Pete Burgers,” Sam said. “And—”

“The special milkshake,” Jodie interrupted.

“Oh! The Holiday Hearth Shake?” Trevor’s eyes lit up. “It really does taste like cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, and sitting by a fire watching old movies.”

Jodie clasped her hands dramatically. “My soul is ready.”

Trevor left to place their order. Jodie bounced slightly in her seat, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You know,” Sam said slowly, “this is not the first time dinner has gone wrong so we ended up here.”

She froze. “What do you mean?”

Sam ticked off on his fingers. “The spaghetti ‘incident’ where the pot allegedly ‘leaped off the stove.’”

“It did!”

“It was nowhere near the edge.”

“It still leaped.”

“Then the taco night where you ‘forgot’ the seasoning packet.”

“That one was a genuine oversight!”

“You forgot it in the cart at the store. Which you then admitted was on purpose.”

She groaned. “Sam—”

“And then the vegetable stir-fry where you swore the sauce betrayed you.”

“It did betray me!”

“You unscrewed the entire cap.”

She threw her hands up. “Okay, fine! Maybe… maybe I occasionally sabotage dinner. But only for good reasons.”

Sam tried not to laugh. “Define ‘good reasons.’”

“Tacos without queso are a crime. So is missing $5 Wednesday Shake Night. And sometimes I just—” she shrugged “—crave burgers.”

He softened. “You could just tell me, you know.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But sometimes you get very determined to eat the food we have.”

“Because it’s financially reasonable!”

“Because you’re German!”

“I’m also Irish!”

“Yes, which is why you’re dramatic about it.”

“Hey—”

Before Sam could finish protesting his own personality traits, Trevor returned balancing a tray of glory: two burgers, a basket of curly fries, and one tall, beautifully swirled Holiday Hearth Shake topped with whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon.

Jodie gasped like she was seeing the face of God.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Trevor grinned. “Enjoy! And, uh, good luck with… whatever happened to your kitchen.”

Sam thanked him and took a bite of his burger. Perfect. Uncle Pete’s never missed. Jodie, however, had eyes only for her milkshake. She lifted it reverently, took a long sip, and—

“Oh. My. GOODNESS.”

Sam smirked. “Worth burning dinner?”

“Absolutely worth it.”

He chuckled, shook his head, and reached for a curly fry. “You know,” he said, “I’m starting to think I should be scared.”

“Of what?”

He held up the fry. “If you’re willing to commit poultry manslaughter to get your way, what happens when Uncle Pete’s releases something even better?”

She grinned wickedly. “Well, they are testing a maple-bacon breakfast burger.”

Sam choked on air. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Honey, please don’t burn the house down.”

“No promises.”

She took another sip of her milkshake, eyes fluttering half-shut in bliss.

Sam watched her—his ridiculous, dramatic, sparkling wife—and felt his chest swell with a warmth that had nothing to do with the shake flavor or the cozy diner lighting. This was their life. Chaotic. Smoky. Full of burnt chickens and questionable decisions.

And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not even fully-functioning kitchen ventilation.