On Cooking and Alarms.

The Mighty Mississippi - Nov 15, 2025

As I sit here writing this, I know damn well that I should be working on school work. The semester is in its final month, our last chapter of Russian, penultimate pushes on papers and projects, what have you. Even the air has finally committed to winter, its crisp chill demanding a wardrobe of sweaters and flannels.

Surgery recovery is going smoothly as well. While I feel sore, it is manageable and for that I am grateful. I am having a hard time keeping quiet or still, and I plan on returning to the office and classroom tomorrow morning. Excited to leave the world of the sick once more, though I wonder if that is ever truly possible for me at this point. Frankly, I do not feel the need to elaborate anymore on illness here than I already have. Instead, I thought I would switch it up a bit, and write about cooking this week, because why not?

It's one of the few activities I have been able to participate in during recovery. The forced break allowed me more space to enjoy the craft again. While my abdomen ached and my voice stung, standing at the stovetop helped me connect with myself, and of course, inspired reflection on growth.  

Cooking during school is normally quite hard to keep up with. Most days, I end up eating a bowl of yogurt for breakfast, oatmeal for lunch, and meal prep for dinner. The majority of this food is eaten, inhaled rather, on my walks to and from classes. Snacks are comprised of granola bars and whole fruit, consumed in a similar fashion. Cooking on Sundays became a necessary chore, such as laundry or homework. Fail to buy and prep food, be stuck with plain oats and protein bars three times a day for the next week.

Thus, on the rare occasions I am home for a meal, plating the finished product is not a glamorous task. My Dinkytown apartments never had room for a table. I would either stand at the counter and eat off the stove, or sit with my plate on the floor. The same could be said for my time in Matamata, where I more often ate seated in bed than at the small camping ‘table’ loaned to me by my uncle. 

It seems like such a small thing to eat dinner at the dinner table, a place whose sole purpose is connection and pause. It feels almost countercultural. An uphill battle, to say the least. But eating dinner with Taylor at our table in our (unpacked!) home, felt like a big deal. It felt very grown up. 

Skeeter (the cat) enjoying his new table - Nov 13th, 2025

Getting food to this table still has its childish hazards. The new house, while cozy and warm, is hardly the definition of modern comforts. The dated kitchen came equipped with endless cabinets, a butler’s pantry, a ceiling light with a long dangly pull-string that hangs low enough to be a cat toy—and a stove that seems determined to set off the smoke alarm every time we cook. Tonight while making pasta sauce, the detector in the bathroom hallway blared loudly no less than ten times. We even took the batteries out with little luck. [editing to add that our landlord thinks the alarm is hardwired, so removing the batteries was entirely pointless.]

In this chaos, a system has developed. While one person tends to simmering food, the other frantically waves a tea towel under the offending alarm. A fan now lives in the pantry, along with some (justified) frustration on Taylor's part. It works, kind of. The whole situation is absurd. Even in these moments of irritation, I can't help to burst out laughing. 

I have many amusing memories of smoke alarms, ranging from Christmas mornings when Dad’s bacon coupled with Mom’s waffles to create loud, happy chaos. There was the time I made lunch for a friend at his *brand new* house and got to be the first to christen the alarm. There was the fire drill at Hobbiton, where the alarms were set off on purpose, and the staff were all evacuated lakeside. If I remember correctly, a coworker and I got in no small amount of trouble for wandering off and taking selfies. 

But my favorite, and perhaps most embarrassing, memories of smoke alarms come from my small rental in Matamata. I set off the smoke alarm nearly every day. The first time it happened, I was terrified. I left the unit in such a hurry that the stove was still lit, the pan still smoking. It usually happened in the mornings before work, when I would cook vegetables and eggs (well, mostly just vegetables): stewed tomatoes and onion, maybe some zucchini, pepper, or mushrooms. Paired with a bit of leftover rice, it made a meal. A bland one at that.

After the first week of daily disruptions in my rental, they became much less alarming. I adjusted, learning by trial and error to open windows and take the problematic pan outside. It was not the easiest (see also, logical) solution to my issues. I, after all, worked in a kitchen teeming with fully functioning adults who had extensive expertise cooking. But in hindsight, I can see that I wasn’t entirely as clueless as memory makes me out to be. Asking for advice was just as embarrassing. That was a part of growing up, too. 

As the New Zealand winter dragged on, so did my list of needs. Most pressingly, I had to ask for help with transport. I got rides with coworkers: Becky, Summer, Leigh, Tyler, Sonya, Dale, and Judith. I ate my alarm-inducing vegetable scrambles in the rotating collection of vehicles on my rides into work, leaving a smoking pan out back on more than one occasion. In solving one issue, the other was ignored. It helped fuel a much larger predicament. 

I was eating less and less. The more adult I felt, the more childlike I projected. Oh the lessons that can be learned in hindsight. While the situation was not ideal (dangerous?) It produced a human resourceful and crafty in ways I still don't fully understand.

Now, as Taylor and I do battle with the kitchen on a nightly basis, as we learn to navigate this new space and new routine, I am floored by the person who stands calmly during alarms. The person who asks the landlord for help. The one who will never limit her expectations, but that will still try her best to clean the oven. I am amazed by the growth and character development that is still taking place. It is a story that could fill an entire book. 

And that, I suppose, is the point of this blog. To brainstorm and reflect until I have the skills (and the time) to write. 

Aurora Sighting in Stacy Minnesota - Nov 12, 2025 (Photo by Teri Kiresuk)

Until next week,

Hannah