We use coconut oil for cooking, and if the temperature is too high it gets smoky in the kitchen. This is not unusual. What is unusual is the amount of smoke billowing from the pan yesterday.
“Huh,” I said. “There must be something stuck to the burner, or the pan, or something.”
“COUGH COUGH,” said my brother.
“Sorry. I know the coconut smoke bothers you. The chicken should be done soon,” I said. The pink in the chicken had nearly disappeared, and soon I would be able to package it up for the week’s lunches.
“Should we start the next Murder She Wrote?” my brother asked.
“Yeah, why not?” I said.
“BEEP BEEP,” screamed the alarm.
“What the…is that the smoke alarm?” I said. I went up to check. It was, indeed, the fire alarm. I waved a doily in front of it to clear the smoke that had evidently drifted upstairs. It stopped beeping.
Unfortunately, the smoke had also alerted my home alarm to the presence of “fire.”
“BEEP.” Pause. “BEEP.” Pause.
“Uh, your alarm says FIRE,” said my brother.
The alarm company called Chad to inform him that they had called the fire department, and that they were on their way. He called me to make sure I was okay. I assured him that I was.
In a few moments (a testament of the abilities of the fire department; I know they have to be fast but I was impressed by how fast) fire fighters arrived at my door. I held a struggling and yapping chihuahua while heavily-booted people tromped into my house.
“I burned the chicken,” I said.
I apologized profusely, but they didn’t seem bothered. They thanked me for calling in the false alarm (Chad told them that it was probably nothing and they should call it off) and I promised I’d never cook chicken again.