For me, a smoke detector functions like a kitchen timer, only a lot more shrill

Smoke detectors and housewives like me aren’t a good combination.

I went to a safety evening sponsored by Hatzolah, and they kept on repeating how important it is to install smoke detectors. They can save lives. So being the safety-conscious (read: paranoid) mother I am, and the organized and efficient balabusta I wish I really was, I went out and bought a few. My husband placed them in all the strategic places: in the hallway outside the bedrooms, by the front door, and in the kitchen.

Yes. The kitchen.

We overlooked one thing: My tendency to burn dinner. For me, a smoke detector functions like a kitchen timer, only a lot more shrill. The perk is that I don’t have to remember to set it; it lets me know automatically when the frying pan is on fire.

We installed the smoke detectors three days ago. I’ve made dinner every night since. And the smoke detectors went off every time, of course. My neighbors have already stopped evacuating the building when they hear it.

Sigh. My husband and children are getting tired of eating barbecued potatoes every night. That’s what I call what was supposed to be mashed potatoes. If you scrape up the burned bits from the bottom of the pot, you get that charcoal taste of a real outdoor grill, and I can pretend I’ve taken the kids on a camping trip and am roasting potatoes-wrapped-in-foil in the bonfire.

But seriously, how am I supposed to remember I put up a pot of potatoes to boil? There’s so much competing for my attention: My toddler has undressed himself and is starting to fill up the bath, a neighbor is knocking on the door to borrow something, two other kids are wrestling each other to death, and my cellphone is ringing for the third time in a row. Combine that with my ADHD and there’s way too much going on.