Hi Reader,

Welcome! Please, come in. On the table, we have irrepressible daisies, rather hastily stuck in a jam jar. No, don’t go in the kitchen. If you want some water, I can get it for you. Just. Stay here.

The thing is, in our house, M does all the cooking. I should cook more, but I keep passing up opportunities to learn.

So, yesterday evening, when M was headed out for a work-related event, I said, “I’m going to step up. I’m not getting take-out. No. I’m going to broil salmon.”

I defrosted a salmon fillet, expertly. (45 minutes in a sealed bag, submerged in water, FYI.)

I preheated the broiler in our gas range, got out a cookie sheet, and put a no-stick silicone mat on it. I dabbed a little olive oil on the mat and placed the fillet in the center, then seasoned it with a little more olive oil, salt, and pepper. In an inspired moment, I sprinkled on some Herbes de Provence.

Then I put the cookie sheet in the oven, on the top rack, under the broiler. Wait four minutes for the fillet to be perfectly cooked in the center.

Well.

It took a lot less than four minutes for smoke to start billowing from every vent-like thing the oven has. Uncommonly bright, orange flames shot out of the burner I was using to boil pasta.

(See, I was making a full meal. Oh, I was doing so well.)

Open the oven—

Inferno.

Shut.

“Sweetie…?” I called to M, who hadn’t left yet. “I screwed up.”

She hoisted the fire extinguisher, pulled its long-promised pin. I opened the oven door again to yawning hellfire. She zotted it.

Disaster averted.

PSA: Don’t put silicone under the broiler. Especially not with oil on it. But really ever.

The fire was out, but smoke—and the acrid smell of burnt plastic—filled the house. I thought the neighbors might call the fire department. The kitchen was covered in gray soot and the extinguisher’s curious yellow sand.

“My ride’s here!” said M, and left.

I cracked open a beer, found the shop-vac and all our fans, and ordered pizza.

🫠

I thought I would have to stretch to connect this misadventure somehow to gaming, but really, it’s not hard. It’s right there.

I have never felt so much like a raccoon loose in a suburban house than last night.

The flames. The self-confidence. The Herbes de Provence. It’s like something Kit would do. Only they would use the extinguisher for something much less prosaic than preventing a house from burning down.

All this chaos and more is in each and every little white box of Raccoon Sky Pirates.

Cheers,
Chris

P.S. Eric Faber has written a great piece on the teamwork in Raccoon Sky Pirates in his Substack, “Airborne Ham.” (Doesn’t that already sound like Raccoon Sky Pirates?) He holds up the game as a model ( ! ) for cooperative mechanics in TTRPGs.

P.P.S. I’m getting excited for Origins! I’ve made a coupon that goes in the little coupon book that attendees get, for a deal on raccoon dice. If you're coming, you can find me in Booth 208!

P.P.P.S. My goal is to sell out of every last game in existence at Origins—but in reality, I'll probably sell the last copy in the fall. Then that will be it for Raccoon Sky Pirates. This version, anyway. If there is some other version down the road, it will come much, much later.

P.P.P.P.S. I hope all your misadventures lately have been comical, with no lasting damage, as mine was! Do any of them remind you of raccoons? WWRED? (What Would Rabies Eddie Do?)