I would like to speak to the rocket scientist who puts smoke alarms in kitchens. Seriously. WTH??? I guess Martha never gets smoked out but let’s be honest here. I can promise you that every single time I make chicken marsala? Smoke alarm. It’s an issue with cooking the chicken in barely smoking oil. Yeah, you try to keep it to barely smoking. It’s not burning and the chicken tastes phenom, but still the smoke alarm goes off. I learned to combat this in the old house by just taking the battery out. I thought this was a brilliant idea. Until, of course, the home inspector for the buyer came and busted my ass. The Husband was PISSED.
D: How LONG has the battery been out?
K: Ever since I started making chicken marsala?
D: Since we got married?
K: Um……..yeah. Pretty much. No, wait. I think I was making chicken marsala before we got married.
We then moved into a house that has a hard-wired smoke alarm. Which means that even if the alarm is off, if the smoke alarm goes off, you get a call from the alarm company. The smoke alarm is of course located in the kitchen that has no exhaust fan. Apparently they made it under the wire in 1987 for those pesky regulations that require you pump toxic fumes OUT of the kitchen. If the guy who put in the alarm system was here now, I would kick him in the shins. Because the damn alarm goes off. Sometimes.
Today I was making pot roast and the SOB went off. I ran over to the keypad and punched in the numbers to cancel the call. I went to get my cell phone for the inevitable call which never came. It never came because the alarm was so loud, I never actually heard the phone ring. The Husband called 10 minutes later to tell me he got a message that the fire department was on its way to the house. My phone began to ring incessantly and finally my sister gave up and TWITTERED me about my house burning down. I guess she assumed that with my I-Phone and Twitter, I would be kept in the know about all things related to my impending homelessness. I finally called the alarm company myself. The guy at the other end was PISSED.
Guy: What is your code?
I gave it to him and told him I needed to cancel the call.
Guy: Well, you can’t cancel the call. What’s your number?
I gave it to him. He couldn’t hear it because SOMEONE, and I won’t cast any stones, was clanging two pot tops together like a lunatic.
Guy: I’m sorry, MA’AM. BUT I CAN’T HEAR THE LAST FOUR DIGITS OF YOUR NUMBER.
I gave them to him again. The clanging was unbearable.
K: SHUT THE HELL UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
GUY: MA’AM, I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU.
K: You know what? I need that beer as much as you need it today. So simmer down. I’m doing the best I can here. Now you understand why I didn’t hear your damn call 10 minutes ago.
He laughed. I didn’t.
I didn’t laugh because if I sent my alarm off by going out the door, my entering the code cancels the arrival of the police. So if someone holds a gun to my head and makes me turn my alarm off, the police will never come. But if I feel the desire to make my husband delirious with pleasure by making him pot roast on a cold Friday, I am going to have to explain myself to my children, the alarm company AND the local volunteer fire department that showed up 2 minutes later. Volunteer being the key word. Volunteer meaning they were hoping for a raging FIRE and all they got was a false pot roast alarm.
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