Two in There!


an open letter to my oven
September 11, 2009, 11:24 am
Filed under: cooking, misc

Dear expensive piece of crap;

Apologies for the less than jolly salutation, but I think you and I both know we’re way past the pleasantries now. You’ve wronged me one too many times, and I feel that I must warn you, the bulk of this letter shall be rather… critical.

I’ll start though, by thanking you first of all for your efforts up until this point; indulging my love of food and desire to cook all manner of delicious treats, you did as you were asked, got yourself to the required temperature, took my prepared ingredients, and lovingly held them in your little chamber, warming them until they bubbled or turned golden brown, before announcing your triumph with a satisfying ping.  You made me love my kitchen even more than I thought possible, and as a result I spent more time there than anywhere else in my house. Those days were good, I never had any reason to doubt you as you did everything I asked. We became complacent, and just ‘expected’ you to continue this diligent service for many years to come; after all, you’re only 4 months old, and who knows what culinary treats lie in store for you?

Well, you blew it. Quite literally too, and in spectacular fashion.

The first time, a Friday night, after a long day I’d cooked an asparagus risotto for tea, and had a notion for some chips. Thinking it nothing out of the ordinary, I scattered my homefries in the pan, preheating you as always, popped in the tray, and settled down to leaf through the paper while you did your thing. It was in your hands now, all I had to do was wait.

Bang.

Glass everywhere.

I squeal and stare in disbelief. Did that actually just happen? It did, and thank goodness I was out of the line of fire when it did, but a few minutes before I’d been standing in front of the stove, heavily pregnant, and trying not to over-stir my rice. My poor heart though, took quite some time to recover. Thank goodness Heidi wasn’t playing in here….

The cleanup operation was quite the task; ensuring miniscule shards of glass were absent from the kitchen was not straightforward, and for weeks after we still found the odd piece, in the sole of a shoe or an unsuspecting big toe. I was assured by the manufacturers that it must have been a flaw in the glass, I accepted this and after a fortnight without the facility to cook more than a plate of soup, I was just glad once again to have an intact appliance, though I found myself slightly wary of you, not fully expecting you to cook my meals to perfection as you did once before.

I was wrong to doubt you. For two whole weeks you lovingly enveloped my pies and pastries in your belly of warmth, wafting delicious smells through the house once more. Dinner was once again always on the table, and as my faith in you grew, so did a plethora of treats and other wee indulgences, that I didn’t really have to cook. It was a happy time.

Until last night, when once again you declared your unhappiness by combusting, just as I settled down to have a read on the breakfast bar.

This time I was less forgiving, the surprise quickly turned to anger, and the river of curse word that subsequently flooded from my mouth even had the toaster blushing. How dare you! How bloody dare you!

I trusted you. I didn’t have to after that stunt you pulled last time, but I let bygones be bygones, and carried on as if nothing had gone before. Water under the bridge. That’s how you thank me? By covering my kitchen in razor sharp glass? By giving me a much unneeded fright at 8 months pregnant?  By absolutely destroying the pumpkin I was honey-roasting for a pot of soup? It was just  squash for christ’s sake, did it really merit that? If you object to my cooking so much, all you had to do was burn it or stop working, not bloody detonate!

Well up yours, Matsui, I’ve had a belly full. Or rather ironically, not. This ends here, I’ve called the man, and I’m having you unceremoniously ripped out on monday. I cannot live with such an unpredictable character. If you’re not going to play by the rules, you can get the hell out of my house. I’m going to get a lovely new oven, that does exactly as it’s told, when I tell it too. We’re going to have such an awesome time together, making banana bread and pot pies, and you’re going to sit in a scrap yard, sulking to yourself.  It could have been beautiful, but you spoiled it all. I don’t need appliances with terrorist leanings in my house.

Good day.

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