Seven years ago (or so) I moved in with RocketMan, who had been living in this apartment since 1997. His stove wouldn’t close. Except sometimes, when it did. One afternoon, when trying to bake some bread, the oven closed; and then after opening, it didn’t close, and in a fit of rage, I slammed the stove door repeatedly until something twanged, and then it closed, and closed every time, until a few months ago, when it didn’t.
The numbers on the oven dial had completely worn off, so I spent an afternoon heating the oven with a remote meat thermometer inside, estimating roughly where 350 and 400 were. I used a mailing label to fashion a new label.
A month or so ago, I noticed that some kind of tubing was hanging down inside the oven. I finally demanded we call the super and ask for repairs, at the very least. He asked the brand name. I had to spell it for him, as he’d never heard of it. Turns out it’s no longer in production.
The repairman took one look and said, “Yeah, we’re just measuring for a new stove.” I rejoiced. This morning, at 9:30 AM, they removed our old stove, and we got to see what twenty years’ worth of hiding looks like. Brace yourself.
He left us alone with the mess for a half hour. David used the dustpan to reduce the bulk of the dust; I got out the paint scraper, the orange-based cleaning spray, the Bon Ami, rubber gloves and a yellow scrubby, and got to work.
They returned and installed the stove, which is so new it still had the plastic over the dials. And we paid $0 for it. Well, OK, the price is built into our rent. Well, actually, given that we have rent control and David’s been living here 14 years, the price is built into our new neighbor’s rent. Renting ain’t so bad.
I think I might try making a souffle tonight.
Only one more day to fill out the survey for a chance to win $25 on Amazon! I’ll keep the survey open, of course, but after tomorrow, the drawing closes: