There’s something disconcerting and humbling about the third time a fire alarm goes off because of your cooking.
I know I should turn away from my neighbor’s accusing glances. I should hold my head down as if reflecting on how I have interrupted breakfast, lunch or dinner.
I don’t. At least not for long.
Instead I wonder, like I’m sure they do, if I shouldn’t give up cooking. But, practice makes perfect. Right? Or it makes for more alarms.
My building porters have yet to give up on me. They recently sent a technician over to fix the fan in the kitchen. Perhaps a faulty fan allowed the smoke to rise, thicken and choke.
I don’t think so.