Jennaire’s Confession

In 1997 I was considered a high-end cooking range, but due to some careless truckers. I ended up in a scratch and dent store in Warwick, Rhode Island.

I was apprenticed to a family with two young sons, who were 4 and 2 years old. Over the years I got to know them intimately because they spent all of their time in the kitchen, except when they were in the living room with Wood Stove.

Initially, the children seemed tolerable and the parents came off as nice enough, but throughout the course of our lives together I saw some things that lit a flame of resentment in me.

I was a loyal stove, despite the fact that the woman characterized me as notional and unpredictable. While it is true that early on in our relationship I made the decision to inexplicably lock the Thanksgiving turkey in the oven, I wasn’t completely lacking in decency. Despite my varied electronic and mechanical foibles, not to mention my slovenly fit and finish, I steadfastly allowed them to use two of my four burners for sixteen years.

In the months following  the Thanksgiving incident I carelessly shed my kick-plate so that one end drooped alluringly onto the floor in a way that the woman apparently considered slutty and unbecoming. Furious, she procured a long drill bit and cruelly fastened my kick-plate to my frame. Being young and willful, I fought back by withdrawing my gas flow from two of the four burners and allowing one of my control knobs to deteriorate and break.

Midway through my first decade, my new found maturity made me regret my earlier actions, so I contritely offered up the convection feature that I had been withholding since the day I was first plugged in. To make up for lost time, I convected whether or not the woman wanted me to or not, and because it felt so good to finally do the right thing, I had trouble stopping until long after she had turned me off and opened my door so that I could cool off.

My binge convecting sessions eventually created a neurological condition that caused my display to go blank. Well into our second decade together, the woman, a compulsive cook, finally resigned herself to my limitations. Although it appeared to some that she accepted the fact that I had deteriorated to a barely functional, rusted, brainless white box that housed a possessed oven, she secretly tormented me with her sharp tongue.

One day while she and her now grown up youngest son sat around and companionably swapped snarky comments about my appearance and performance, I reached the boiling point. Accessing the last of my limited strength, I conjured up yet another infuriating antic.

Noticing that the woman was on crutches, I commenced to beep loudly and insistently while taking in the spectacle of the two smarty pants attempting to silence me. I blared “fuuuuck yooooo fuuuuuck yooo yoooo suuuuuck” until the woman finally sent the son down to the basement to throw the circuit breaker. To my delight, the child was not familiar with the word “Range” which is the word the electrician used on the circuit panel to describe me. Enchanted, I listened as the woman crutched her way down the cellar steps to the circuit breaker while I blared “I hope you trip and fall biotch!”

In the year following that last triumph, I remained quiescent until the summer harvest. The woman and her husband worked me from sun up until sun down, processing an endless stream of vegetables from their garden. The woman would grumble about my burner issues  to her friends and family who in turn would urge her to get a new stove.

Late one night while she lay sleeping and I sat fuming in the kitchen, I mustered the same strength that had fueled my last outburst. “Fuuuuuck yoooooo” I beeped.  Once again, I relished the sight of her blearily cursing and fumbling her way down to the basement. I played this game for several weeks, confident that the cheap bitch would keep me until the bitter end.

I must have misjudged the woman because one day she came home and announced to the man that she had just purchased a new range. I beeped in protest. She silenced me by breaking my circuit and then reestablished it. She then punished me all week by making me roast  tray after tray of eggplant and peppers. I boiled water from dawn until dusk. After the harvest was in, she smugly broke my circuit for good and walked away. The next day, the new range came.

He is magnificent. Black and stainless steel with four burners, downdraft, functional electronics, big  knobs, and a capacious convection oven, he presides over the kitchen like a warrior. Water will boil and sauces will simmer on his four variously sized burners. His shiny glass top will never show signs of age. His oven will cook a turkey and a sheet of cookies at the same time. He has a meat probe.




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  1. Peter Nunes says:

    “He has a meat probe”. What a wonderfully succinct and suggestive last line! It’s sort of in the vein of “Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl”. Well, not really.

    1. admin says:

      Well, as I am fond of quoting “vigorous writing is concise…let every word tell”

      It really does have a meat probe!

  2. Kathryn Donahue says:

    So glad you’re back! Loved it. Where did “old stove” end up?

    1. admin says:

      I hope she went somewhere more to her liking…although wherever she went, she went without her fan because My ROyal Consort salvaged it to put into a green house he is building.

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