We talk a lot about how much we hate our stove. “I hate this stove,” I say. “This stove is awful,” E says. This stove is a relic, this stove is a piece of crap, this stove is one thousand years old and why, god, why have you cursed us with a stove that makes us drop to our knees, every single day, and weep olive oil tears while we beat at our chicken breasts and wail at the uncaring heavens?
It came with the house, I feel like I should tell you. And the first time I saw it, I thought it was adorable, I should confess. It is so old timey! Look at the adorable uh, knobs! And things! Isn’t it cute the way it uses electricity? Maybe it made me feel like I was back in my childhood, where every single thing in the house was electric, including our baseboard heaters and our boogie woogie woogie.
It may be a beautiful old piece of history (ha ha ha ha ha!) but it is also the worst kitchen stove in the world. Ever. In the history of the stoves and kitchens. The burners are all crooked and heat unevenly, and the oven hasn’t decided yet what temperature 350 degrees is, and it’s small and stupid and we hates it, we do.
We have a home warranty, and we managed to successfully obtain a new dishwasher to replace our antique dishwasher inside of which was an actual, ineffective little dinosaur with a little scrub brush. We thought, let’s get a new stove! A man who was one thousand and four years old came out and looked at it while I hovered over him, desperately trying to convince him that it was broken forever and ever. “It doesn’t heat up! It heats up too much! Sometimes, um, it catches on fire! But sometimes it won’t even start! WE HEARD VOICES COME FROM DEEP WITHIN AND THEN IT FOUNTAINED BLOOD!”
He said, “mm hmm,” and charged us thirty dollars and went away, and we still have the same stove that we have always had, which we are pretty convinced is going to be buried with us and probably also get the best epitaph, too.
This is sad because we want to cook. We want to cook every! We want to cook all. Because—well, have you ever met someone who has eaten fast food for every single meal for weeks on end? Yes, that’s us. Yes, we’ve seen Super-Size Me. Yes, we’re ashamed and our hearts are as fatty and enlarged as our butts.
But the thing is that we cook for a week and then we can’t stand the crooked burners and the weird uneven heat and the teeny little stove and the dark little kitchen and suddenly we’re on the road again, arguing over whether it has been long enough since we’ve eaten Taco Bell that our intestinal microbes have forgiven and forgotten.
We need a stove. I used to think that if I got a windfall of money first I’d pay to have my name lasered into the moon, and then I’d pay off my credit card debt and student loan, and then I’d get a full-body tuck, where all the parts of me that stick out are tucked in. But now I’m thinking a windfall of money is first, going straight up my nose and secondly, going right into a fancy nuclear-powered stove and thirdly, I am getting my name laser-carved into the moon.