Michele M. Bender The chicken was well-done

May 29—The Editorial Page in the May 18 editions of The Tribune-Democrat spoke directly to me.

One article saluted the Red Cross' Sound the Alarm campaign. Somerset Fire Department volunteers visited homes, checking existing smoke detectors and installing new ones if necessary.

A letter in the Readers' Forum sent in by a Geistown resident praised emergency services in the East Hills.

At the bottom of the page, syndicated columnist Star Parker reminded readers about National Police Week, a yearly May tribute to police officers, present and past.

On Mother's Day evening, the fire department dropped by my apartment for dinner.

Everyone knows that notorious blunders litter my culinary history. Tasty and usually recognizable dishes turn out looking like raccoon gizzards and tasting like compost.

At 7:15 p.m., I slid two chicken thighs on a tinfoil pan into my Hotpoint oven at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. At 8 p.m., they remained pink. Selecting broil, I moved the thighs to the top rack and clicked the exhaust fan on.

When I peeked in after three minutes, a tiny puff of steam escaped, not dense or black smoke, just an innocent burp. My shrill, ear-piercing smoke alarm began to wail.

I froze. Never, ever, had my kitchen mishaps required the fire department. Pepto, yeah, but not hoses.

I moved the guilty pan to the range top and rolled into the hallway. Unhappy neighbors filed toward the exits.

"It's my fault. No danger, honest. I'm so sorry." Guilt-ridden cliches tumbled from my lips.

My first-floor apartment is the second unit from the front door. A volunteer cased the crime scene.

I wheeled over and poked my head in. "Can you stop this?"

"No," he replied. "Equipment must respond to all alarms. And you need to leave."

As he steered my chair out, the huge city hook and ladder truck arrived. When the next giant engine arrived, I started to cry.

An emergency medical technician dashed over. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, physically. But I'm ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated, mortified, probably a few more words," I wailed. "What if a real fire starts somewhere? And people are in danger? All this equipment and manpower dispatched for my chicken thighs."

Kleenex-less, I blotted tears with my skirt hem.

A fireman explained that contingency plans throughout the district exist for these incidents.

The drama lasted about 45 minutes.

I thank God that brave, committed individuals selflessly risk (and sometimes sacrifice) their personal safety for others.

Their competence, compassion and courage merit gratitude and respect from the public.

I think of the hours they spend training, the anxiety of facing uncertain danger call by call, and the emotional toll it inevitably takes.

We are so blessed.

I know I could never do what those precious folks do.

But you know me. I'm chicken.