Greetings! The last post was about letting go. Guess we're still doing that at the Stress Pool, but not in ways we'd like. The old gas range isn't working the way it used to, but it is old. We're talking eighteen years old - if it were a person, we'd be sending it off to college! It's been a good, reliable range, with lots of bells and whistles, but now it's time to let it go as well. Funny story how we came to get it...
Morticia was probably eight years old, and I was all about the children learning to do things independently. After all, I had been working part-time for a few years, and had given birth to our fifth child. Things were hectic - the boys were teens, the girls were in those early grades, and there was a toddler running around the house. Darling Hubby worked two jobs in those days - teacher by day, waiter by night and the weekends. If my hands were busy and a child wandered in wanting something they could probably get on their own, then aha! a teaching moment prevailed.
Back to Morticia and the stove. I was getting clothing ready for a huge children's clothing resale. DH had looked at me the day before and said I would have to do this - at the time, it seemed like more effort than I really had time for - but in the end, it was usually worth it. (That doesn't mean I didn't grumble a little. Okay, a lot.) This one ended up costing us way more money than it should have - not much profit gained. So, there I am, tagging and folding clothing, when Morticia walked in. "I want chicken." She was always strong-willed, and patience was not her strong suit. And, I didn't have time to stop what I was doing to make chicken strips. After all, we'd had dinner. This was just a little bed-time snack.
We really should buy stock in Tyson chicken strips - it's always been a fave of the children. "It isn't hard to make. Do you remember how to set the oven temperature?"
"Yeah, you just turn the knob. I can read. I know what to do." She went away, put the strips on one of my good Wilton cookie sheets, and put it in the oven when it had preheated. I could hear most of this from my bedroom, where my bed looked like a thrift clothing store counter. When the timer went off, she trundled into the kitchen. "I can't get it out of the oven!"
Eggbert was using the computer in the living room. I called down to him, "Would you please help your sister with the chicken?"
He went in, then called up, "I can't get the oven open."
What? "Use pot holders!"
"That's not the problem."
Down I came, and immediately saw the problem. Back in the day, self-cleaning ovens had a lever in the front. You locked it, set the temperature, and walked away. When it was done and cool enough, a little light went off, indicating you could push the lever back and admire your clean oven. She had locked the oven when she put the chicken in. So, since the chicken had to cook at 400+ degrees, it wasn't going to unlock until it cooled to at least 375. However, Eggbert, in his zeal to help out, forced the lever. There was no unlocking the oven. Ever. DH and I had a very intense discussion when he returned home that night.
"The stove is thirteen years old. Do you realize how much this will cost to fix it? Do you really want to pour money into a stove that's thirteen years old?"
We went to the scratch and dent outlet, and found a beautiful gas range that had a warming burner, a convection oven, and an all digital display. It cost an arm and a leg, but not nearly full price because it had a tiny dent in the side that would never be seen by a human being, but had been rejected by the person who'd purchased it. We talked long and hard about the price. I promised wonderful meals. We bought it.
When they delivered it, the fellow taking away the old range went to open the oven door. "It won't open."
"I know," and told the story.
"So, there's a pan of chicken in that oven?"
"Yup."
"Two weeks old?"
"Yup, on one of my nice cookie sheets."
He laughed all the way to the curb.
Now, eighteen years later, they can't get the bottom of the oven off because the convection fan cover is in the way. The bolts are rusted and won't come out. The cost to fix the oven would be more than the cost of a new stove. But, this time I'm not looking for bells or whistles. I just want to be able to bake and make scrumptious dinners.
Oh, and make pans of chicken strips, because they still like to do that around here. (I really should look into Tyson stock!)
So, in a week or two, even though I'll be back to the work life, maybe we can pop in a pan of brownies, sit around the Stress Pool, and chat about your favorite appliance story - we all have them! Until next time, thanks for visiting, and take it easy!
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