The Egg, the Alarm, and the Step Stool

September fourth. One egg. One pan. One smoke alarm that has apparently been waiting years for exactly this moment.

It was not a complicated breakfast. I have made eggs hundreds of times. I have a standing cooking practice, Simone has been known to name dishes from it out loud, at the kitchen sink, without warning. I know how a pan behaves. And yet: I turned to check on Gerald and the windowsill for approximately thirty seconds, and the alarm went off like I had attempted a reduction sauce in a closet. The egg was fine, incidentally. Slightly overdone at the edges, but fine. The alarm did not know this and did not care.

The step stool lives in the narrow gap between the fridge and the wall and I have not used it in months, maybe longer. I dragged it out, climbed up, pressed the button, and had a very brief philosophical moment about whether this was the most awake I had been at seven in the morning in a long time. The two prints are still leaning against the wall across the room, unhelpfully witnessing the whole thing.

Exhibit A.

I ate the egg. It was fine. Gerald is fine. The collapsed bowl on the shelf above the stove did not comment.

The real obstacle.

The smoke alarm has been silent since, which I am choosing to read as respect.