There is a smoke detector in my kitchen – it sits in the hallway at the top of the stairs to the basement. It also sits about 3 feet away from the wall oven. What this means is, just about every time I cook something at temperatures higher than, oh I don’t know – 200F – and I open the oven door, the smoke detector goes off. I use the oven more nights than not to cook my dinner, so hearing the piercing scream of the smoke detector has become pretty much a nightly occurrence around these parts. There’s even a catch phrase to go with it that the kids coined: “Mom’s Home!” My sweet little angels.
Until yesterday, I really didn’t care a whole lot about the smoke alarm going off; I figured it was an annoyance to the family, but that was about it. I guess that is still true, except I need to replace the word “family” with “neighborhood”. You see, I was cooking dinner and opened the oven door to check on it while I was on my way out the back door to let Grace out. As soon as I stepped outside, I heard the alarm start to sound and I thought, “Oh good. It’ll annoy everyone but me now! Ha ha!”
Wrong! I was clear across the backyard, all the way towards the end of our property line and I could hear the shriek of the smoke detector clear as day. Which means my neighbors have also been hearing about my highly skilled cooking techniques. Oops! How embarrassing. I’m surprised none of them have mentioned it yet, after all, the neighbors on our left had a great time telling us how much they enjoyed watching us chase Grace all over the neighborhood when she got loose. Maybe they have just been waiting for us to come running and screaming from the house, “Fire! Fire! Fire!,” so they could point and laugh again – and then mention it a few weeks later.