Don't You Know Who I Am?

The trouble with being a blogger is that, whether you've earned it or not, you position yourself as some sort of expert on a specific subject. In my case, that would be BBQ - which, let me tell you effusively, I am not an expert on. I am certainly a critically acclaimed consumer of the stuff, and I do more than just dabble in preparation, but I'm a long way from being very good at it. Nonetheless, you start a blog called the Rib Rebort and you're kind of setting yourself up for a big fall, should, say you have to be paid a visit by the Real American Heroes of the Philadelphia Fire Department.

Let me rewind: On Thursday Rib Reporterette and I were to host a little dinner party, featuring yours truly, Lil Smoky, on the grill. We had some skirt steak marinated, salad all prepped, when she realized that she needed to make a quick run to the store, as we needed a few more quinces. I decided this would be a good time to throw a little slice of steak on a pan - the coals on the grill weren't hot yet - to sample the coming main course. Well, this little piece of red meat - no bigger than a Ritz cracker - had a lot of life to it. Soon after it hit the pan, the kitchen, in fact the entire first floor, was filled with an acrid grey cloud. I went to open the door, and that's when the smoke alarm went off.

Now, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of experiencing one of these newfangled fire alarms, let me tell you what you're missing. A high-pitched squawk appears to emit from every wall in the house. The sound burrows into your brain, and very quickly works its way into your internal organs. At this point, you begin to actually see flashing lights which correspond with each infernal MEEEP! Loyal readers know of my stoicism in the face of adversity - the story of how I singlehandedly backed down a crazed herd of emu while on a UNICEF mission to Luxembourg is oft repeated, for good reason - but friends, I must tell you that I was not man enough to handle this situation. I contemplated running from the house and never looking back, but realized that we had company arriving shortly. Emily Post's visage appeared in the haze above the stove, and she looked extremely disappointed to hear that I might bail on my guests. Not wanting to let her down, I dug my feet in like Frank Robinson after getting buzzed by a high hard one.

At this point I could hear commotion on the block as neighbors, and their dogs, began to react to the hell squeal coming from the house. I located the smoke alarm, but the damn thing was hard wired to the internal mechanisms of the house - the future is here, and its almost impossible to disarm. I called Lisa, while simultaneously the alarm company was calling the house. Phone on each ear, I was able to accomplish exactly nothing. By now I'd realized that the house was not going to burn, so I turned my attention to infuriating as few neighbors as possible. Standing on a chair, I did my best Little Dutch Boy impersonation and plugged my thumb into the noise-making tube on the alarm (that's tech speak for you.)

I stood there until Lisa walked in the front door, told me I was an idiot, and cut the wires in the alarm with a pair of scissors. Silence. Ahh. Sirens. Damn.

This house, this little brick house, built in the days of bucket brigades and horse drawn fire engines, had gone over my head and called the Fire Department. How it did it I'll never know - its not talking. Suffice to say, we're on some Jetsons shit folks. Lisa went out to meet the truck, and after assuring the firemen that is was not she, but rather her boneheaded boyfriend who'd set off the alarm, she pointed them into the house.

The thing about Firemen is you really can't hate on them. Police? Yeah police can catch some well deserved flack. But firemen? What can you say about them? They put their lives on the line, they get cats out of trees, and they're unfailingly rugged and charming. They walk into your house with their friendly little chuckles, their, "buddies," and, "pals," and you just know that if they weren't on duty they'd laugh at you for your inability to cook a steak, then go fix your girlfriends carbuerator and take her for a ride on the hook and ladder. But they were on duty, thank God, so instead they just looked around to confirm that nothing was on fire, then asked if I'd been cooking. "Fellas," I wanted to say, "its all good. I'm Mr. Mo, from the Rib Report. You guys are readers, right?"

"Oh of course," slightly shorter slightly less ruggedly handsome fireman would reply. "We have a subscription at the firehouse."

"Well then," I'd say, "you surely recognize that this is all a big misunderstanding. I'm not used to working in this kitchen, and it appears there's a defective pan in here. I'll get everything straightened out."

"Alright Mo," they'd say, "hook us up with a shoulder one of these days."

Instead, they just hit me with the American Hero smirk and walked out, leaving me with a smoky kitchen, a burnt pan, and a girlfriend not known for restraint when it comes to re-telling potentially embarassing stories.

Postscript: The steak, when cooked on the grill, was banging. I then has steak the next two night at wedding related events. I've been having trouble walking.