Old Post: New Oven

Sometime in the aftermath of Quinn's birthday, when everyone was bringing us meals, I realized my old oven had quit. One friend brought me a dish that needed some baking time, and when she got here, my preheated oven was still cold. Since I had had absolutely enough out of that beastly appliance that continually heated up the kitchen and set off my smoke alarm, I wasn't interested in any diagnostic testing, and I'm quite sure had we had it looked at, any serviceman would have laughed himself silly over us. It was, of course, 32 years old. Not that that is a bad thing.

I have a second old oven in the basement, so I wasn't without a paddle, but after a while, the trips up and down the stairs to check on my food's progress got annoying, not to mention dangerous when I was carrying hot pizza back up the steps, blindly dodging kids and toys.

So Jason measured our cabinets and went to the appliance store. It's such a small wall space that we had only two choices in one brand--regular or self-cleaning. We did what any self-respecting, hurried homeowners would do. We bought the self-cleaning variety.

The oven had to be special ordered, since no other Atmore resident in a right state of mind would install such a tiny thing. Jason still had to modify a top cabinet to make room for the oven, and he hired a cousin to make new doors for it.

George the appliance man delivered our Frigidaire one exciting afternoon. I was happy, but immediately skeptical of one thing, the thing that had been bugging me since before the oven was even a twinkle in Jason's eye.

Sure enough. My favorite pans wouldn't fit. Not even close. Bless my heart. I had been volunteered to make a fancy dessert for a Christmas gathering, and I chose a chocolate cake roll. It had been a long several years since I had baked my recipe, so a few details were cloudy. I chose my smaller jelly roll pan, which was a mistake.
When you're pressed for time and have to make a decision on your feet, Cool Whip folded into melted chocolate chips is a clever disguise for a dessert flop. (I didn't have time to take pictures of the ugly-but-delicious finished product.)

And I'm still getting to know my new friend, who can be a little uneven tempered, and possesses an overall maladjusted, narrow outlook. But I bought some new pans, and everyone is making nice, even the smoke alarm, which has only squawked three or four times.
P.S. How d'you like my stairwell wallpaper?

A New Helper

I've always been a champion of the underdog. Maybe it all began when I had Charlotte's Web read to me, and listened to Fern save the runt piglet from the axe. Wilbur turned out to be a pretty fantastic pig. I remember applying some of Fern's life-saving tactics on my mom when our cat had pre-term kittens. Mom let me keep them in a box inside, but it didn't end well.

I'm also one to save little bits of things, finding a use for them later. Construction paper scraps, fabric scraps, the bottom of the ketchup bottle, stale bread crusts. I try to avoid wasting something I bought or made.

When we moved to this 30-year old house, we were faced with the dilemma of the original kitchen appliances. Grandpas took their new fridge with them, so that replacement was a no-brainer. We had to buy a microwave too, to be installed over the 2-year-old range. We decided to spray-paint the old oven and dishwasher doors, and get as much use out of the dinosaurs that we could. I was happy with this restorative solution, and set about discovering and working with the quirks of my old appliances.

I have previously testified about my oven. I have not said anything about the dishwasher. Until now. The very first time I used it, I ran to the living room window and looked out to see who was driving the tractor out to which field. I saw only grass waving in the breeze and empty sky. I was mistaken. It was the dishwasher, loudly washing its dirty load. The thing was so noisy, we couldn't carry on conversations in the kitchen. If the phone rang, I had to take it to another room--far away. Even then, the person on the other end would ask, "WHAT is THAT?!" If I would have to run it when we had company over, undoubtedly our guests would perk up their heads with puzzled looks during its ear-shattering screeches. It really did sound like a jet engine. Jason and I developed our own interpretations of its sounds, and sometimes sat around imitating it, just for kicks. It washed my dishes fairly well, when I used it. I attributed the sometimes resulting dirty dishes to my own fault of cramming every last article I could into the beast. Black residue of some kind would appear over all the inside, and I had to scrub it off with a toothbrush. Then lately, it ceased to drain properly. After each wash, I had water standing in the bottom of the tub. Foul-smelling, backed-up-drain water. I told the Mr. about it.

I had a doctor's appointment on Friday, and when I came home, I saw that the Mr. had replaced it with a new Whirlpool! At first I was sad for my little friend, since it had held my sympathies for so long and had embodied my ideals of making the most out of our resources. When I recovered from my shock, I asked him what changed his mind. "When I opened it last night and smelled poop!" he said.

I used the Whirlpool once. Twice. Three times. I couldn't believe how clean my dishes got. Squeaky clean! I couldn't believe how quiet it was. I could hear myself think.

Jason cleaned out the drain last night. It was a very gross job.

I've decided I've got myself a great dishwasher, and a great man!