Dinner with the Morgan-Abramses

We are the perfect picture of domesticity, of happy marriage. I, at the kitchen island writing. Mamie, at the stove. She's cooking us dinner (read: we're both broke). It's her dinner, the one she knows how to make. So what if tonight she's forgotten a few ingredients? So what if what she thought were snow peas are really edamame? Music spills, life is glorious, we are basking in the perfection of our lives.
'Would you like some more wine?' I ask, tenderly.
She starts the risotto, and a few moments later furrows her face. 'It doesn't look right,' she tells me.
We inspect it. The risotto, usually golden with saffron is a deep mud color. We decide the butter has burned. The color is scary, is clearly saying, Don't eat me. But we're optimistic. I go back to writing--struggling with 'clothed' versus 'dressed.' Mame says, 'Who the hell says clothed?' I frown at her. Notice that she is marinating the swordfish in something that looks like barbecue sauce. I vaguely remember language like 'something different.' The oil in the pan is smoking. At this point, I could say something. Prevent the collapse. I take one look at her face--that forbidding, no one talk to me look.
The swordfish goes in, the sugary sauce burns, the smoke begins. My eyes are tearing. It's hard to make out her shape a few feet away from me. The house is a solid wall of smoke. The whole place reeks of barbecue and fish.
The best part of this is that Mamie's roommate (her real one) has put in a ten thousand dollar alarm system. It is now shouting, FIRE ONE, FIRE TWO, FIRE THREE...
Mamie swirls around irritably. 'What is HAPPENING?' she demands.
I peer through the smoke, bat my hands at the air in front of my face. 'We need to act,' I tell her. 'Grab a towel, wave them at the detectors, open the windows!'
'But where,' she snaps, 'is it COMING FROM?' Behind her the pan is on fire. Literally. Flames are leaping up around it.
FIRE FOUR.... 'Jesus, what if the sprinklers come on?' I bellow stupidly over the alarm.
'FIX IT!' she screams. We've both lost our head. I'm jumping up and down waving Mamie's bathrobe at the detector: 'HELP ME!' I'm bewildered--where IS she? From a distance, I hear her. Something about not being able to leave the fish. Fuck the fish. The police will come. I keep thinking of sprinklers. Nothing will make the smoke disperse, not the fan, not the towel not anything. In the kitchen, I hear the wet slap of swordfish as it hits the floor. 'Shit,' I hear her say before she walks over with a broom and dismantles the detectors. She turns to me--we're both sweaty, shaking--says 'You fix this' and walks outside. And yes, we ate the dinner.