Gerald Witnessed Everything and He Will Not Be Testifying

June twenty-first. The smoke detector went off at 6:47 PM and then again at 7:03 PM, which means I had sixteen minutes between alarms during which I apparently learned nothing.

Here is what happened: I was attempting to cook actual food, which I do approximately twice a week with mixed results. The exhaust fan above the stove is one of those fixtures that exists purely for show, it makes a noise, it has buttons, it does not move air in any meaningful direction. I knew this. I have lived here long enough to know this. I turned it on anyway, the way you put on a seatbelt in a parked car, and then I walked into the other room to read something for four minutes, which is apparently three minutes and fifty-five seconds too long when the burner is on medium-high.

By the time I got back in, there was smoke, there was a pan that had committed some kind of atrocity, and Gerald was just sitting on the windowsill next to the collapsed bowl looking completely unbothered, which I respect. The smoke detector is mounted just outside the kitchen doorway at a height that requires me to fully extend both arms and stand on my toes to reach it, which is a design choice I have many thoughts about. I waved a dish towel at it for what felt like a long time.

Investigating the crime scene

At one point I was crouched on the floor with the oven door open trying to assess whether anything in there was also somehow involved, and the answer was no, the oven was innocent, but I crouched there for a moment anyway just to be thorough.

Negotiations with the smoke detector

The pan is fine. It is soaking. I ate toast for dinner, which was what I should have made in the first place. The apartment smells like a cautionary tale and I have the window open. Gerald has seen worse from me and he knows it.