Friday, March 06, 2009

I Smell Burning

For those who follow my blog, you’ll know I occasionally write about the nuts in my building. Not that I live in a nuthouse – though some of you may think I should.

I love living the high life in a high rise. It really is different up here. I enjoy an exclusive view of the world, while maintaining a certain level seclusion, because people can’t see way up into my palace in the skies.

My building is pretty old, but that’s a good thing. Today’s buildings are made of so-called space-age materials, which is just a fancy way to say “Made in China” crap. My building on the other hand is built like a bunker. I should know, every time I hang anything on the walls, I have to use excessive force just to make a dent.

Despite its toughness, occasionally scents and smells from the neighbours creep in. Usually when this happens, it is because of the lady on the floor above me cooking. Or rather, the lady above me is attempting to cook.

Usually when she’s cooking, it just doesn’t smell all that good. It either stinks like grease, smells like she’s hauled in some rancid road kill and is roasting it, or everything just smells like burning.

I love to cook, and take pride in creating an atmosphere where not only the food interacts with the pallet, but the scents play with your nose. Anyone who’s enjoyed my home cooking, always tells me: “oooh that smells good,” long before the meal reaches the table.

Having the demon cook above ruins that ambiance; it throws out the whole thing. My homemade meals don’t taste any worse, but I don’t get to savour the smells of good cooking, because bad cooking stink overpowers it.

Maybe it is part of our animal instincts, to warn of us about potential danger by making our nose pick up stinky smells more over the nice ones. Or maybe I don’t have enough air circulation to vent out the upstairs neighbour’s bad aromas. All I know is no matter what I cook, if the lady upstairs is cooking, her grease fired excuse for a meal will stink up my nice smelling kitchen.

And grease fired probably isn’t far off. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s set off the fire alarm on more than a handful of her cooking adventures. Of all the stinky stunk that emanates from her place, burnt is probably the word to best describe it.

I’ve tried everything to contain the stink. I’ve opened all the windows and doors, sprayed air freshener until the can runs empty, even turning a bit of my own heat up, by adding some more spices to my cooking. Nothing works, short of calling 9-1-1 and reporting a fire in the unit above me.

I’ve often thought of running up to her place, breaking down the door, barging in with a fire hose, and just washing out her mess of a meal.

But spending a night in jail isn’t exactly my idea of a fine dining experience.
So, I suppose I’ll just have to open all my windows and doors, spray as much air freshener as I can without suffocating, and hope that I don’t see flames coming from the ceiling.

But hey, at least I have a good meal on my table.

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