Dear Smoke Detector

Dear Smoke Detector,

I’ve had a theory for awhile now, and I’m hoping that you can confirm it. (If you’re not too busy going off, of course). That theory is: you’re a flaming racist.

Exhibit A: that one time I tried to cook beshamel (a French dish that the Egyptians took) for dinner. My oven knew well enough I had selected “broil,” and for some reason, you selected: “scream.”

Exhibit B: that other time I tried to make shakshuka (a Tunisian dish that the The Colonizers-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named tried to take) for breakfast. I added more than enough oil, mind you, and you acted as though the entire city’s water department had to be on top of my stove.

Exhibit C: Chǎo fàn (a Chinese culinary invention that the Americans took). A shrimp did not fry that rice, but you thought I had burned it when I put it in the microwave.

Despite all of these elaborate delicacies, you only seemed to go off when I make non-American foods.

Exhibit D: Some mac and cheese? You slept like a baby. 

Exhibit E: Eggs and turkey bacon, and you don’t make a peep. 

Exhibit F: Burgers on a skillet, and you have no beef. 

But anytime I dare to cook something from the Global South, you consider it your civic duty to try and send the fire department banging on my door.

I’ve forced myself to become a 50’s-style diner, with the same greasy and gross foods, the racism alive and well in this kitchen establishment.

What is it? The “spiciness?” The scrawling steams of heat? I’m only Arab; paprika is more than enough for me. How can it be too much for you?

Last I checked, appliances couldn’t vote. I should’ve looked for you at the library on Election Day. Did you sport a MAGA hat? Make America Grate Again? As in, grate some cheddar cheese for this dish, because that’s the only thing I’ll allow you to top your meat with? Is salt the only thing you’ll allow in my apartment? Pepper? Mint. Come on.

I miss being able to crisp up some juicy shawarma. Caramelize onions for layered burritos. To fry delicious pakora without fear. (Okay, maybe a little fear. Who enjoys cleaning up oil splatters? I’m not that good at cooking.)

My Instant Pot has never complained, nor my microwave, nor my toaster oven. You could even take from the fridge’s example. Allowing so many foods to coexist. Some even pair well together. Chai with ice cream. Labneh and sourdough. The Muslim pizza place marrying gyro and tomatoes. This… this, is the beauty of globalization.

So long as your colonizer tone rings at me, my kitchen will be the resistance.

Sincerely,

Hannah

P.S. If you’re thinking about going off right now, don’t. You know I know where the batteries are.