Where There’s Smoke…

I made meatballs in the oven a couple of days ago. Some grease spilled on to the oven and when I heated it up for garlic bread, smoke everywhere. I couldn’t even stand to be in the kitchen because my eyes were watering.

I didn’t notice how bad it got until the smoke alarm went off. I reacted by turning everything off, opening every window, opening the door to create a vacuum and fanning the stupid detector until it shut up. I made sure there were no flames. Everything was under control inside of 10 minutes.

Did you know venting into your hallway means all your neighbors can smell it? I do! I can finally breathe in the kitchen when I see flashing lights outside. Fire trucks and emergency vehicles were outside and lining the block. I’m standing there thinking, “No. No way. Please tell me I’m just being self-centered.”

I’m watching people go in and out with axes feeling pretty damn paranoid. I finally get the courage to poke my head out and a lovely women asks me if I’ve been cooking. Yup. This display of tax dollars at work is my fault. One of the neighbors smelled it and called it in.

They see how embarrassed I am (yes, it is possible) and realize there is no danger and everyone rolls out. I had a sandwich for dinner.

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