We Strove for a Stove

I'm almost uncomfortable, now that I think about it, having to admit that I've had a broken oven for the greater part of two years.  We do have a toaster oven and a microwave, not to mention the stove works, so we were generally ok.  I terribly missed my wife's Xmas Cookies of Death but we must do what we must do.  Anyone can make or buy chocolate chip cookies but my wife makes them something special. I make a point of not having nuts in cookies but I don't mind when my wife does it.  They're even better than my mom's cookies, which is saying a lot.

Out of the blue, a stove/oven dropped on us.  Not in the same way the deer dropped on my car; more of a surprise exchange.  Since we knew it was coming, we were able to make plans to get it in the house, make room and see about installation.  Since installation was two hundred and fifty dollars, we opted for the Dad Fix (Dad would come over and do it).

Making room looked to be the most difficult part of the program.  You'd think it would be a matter of removing the old stove and moving in the new one, but we don't do anything normally.  Suffice it to say that clear floor space is at a premium (which is a nice way of saying that we're just a few square feet of space away from an episode of Hoarders).  Days of cleaning and moving stuff ensued, spearheaded by my ever-moving wife.  Since the kitchen is at the back of the house, we decided the oven would exit and enter by the back door (with the dog and cat).

The fateful day arrived and I took off work.  Dad arrived and took the wife to Lowes, where my wife likes to spend money.  When they returned, we unhooked the old stove and took it out.  And when I say took it out, I mean it wouldn't go through the back door, so we had to put it on a cart, wheel it through the house, out the front door, and around the back of the house because we can't leave it out front.  We have to call the township to remove it.

After much cursing, we got the old unit out then brought the new unit all the way around, up the front steps and through the house to the kitchen.  More cursing.   Then Dad discovered he had purchased the wrong size plumbing: the house had 3/4" gas lines because it was put together by drunken monkeys, piece by piece, over years.  More cursing and another Lowes trip later, we had all we needed.

I learned all about taping threads, shutting off the gas to the house, screwing things on and the liquid that looks for leaks (LLL).  I also learned not to shut off that other valve because that's not gas.  Fortunately I did not learn like I normally do - the hard way.

We turned the gas back on, tested the burners, pushed back the stove and we were off!  For some strange reason everything worked.  Since it was the beginning of winter, we were in a bit of a hurry to restart the water and house heaters.  Water came right back up but the house heater, which is at least as old as me, took longer.  If called upon, I could absolutely not remember how to start either of them.

My dad mused that this one hour job took four, which is about right.  The wife was thrilled that we had a working stove.  It even had a digital display and timer.  It was white, which will no doubt change quickly.  My back was saying nasty things to me in a rather threatening tone, so we all went out for lunch (at 4 o'clock).

An oven is nice but it's an awful shame about the plumbing.

The plumbing?

Yes, the plumbing.  My wife informed me that there was rather a lot of water in the basement sink.  It was going nowhere and apparently was backing up, due to the internal kids flushing paper towels.  No amount of plumber's helpering would clear the mess.  She got out chemicals, which usually work but also failed.

The wife consulted my dad, my brother and the Home Depot Handbook.  We borrowed a snake, which also failed.  Finally she flushed some RidX down the toilet and within hours, we had no water in the sink.

Let's face it - I'm a knowledge worker.  I wasn't built to move boxes or do plumbing.

CAR UPDATE

We took the car to the insurance-approved collision center.  They immediately got upset and said it shouldn't be driven.  We should hear back today on the status.

Venison: it's what's for dinner.

Observations from Venus

So I'm at dinner with friends last week when we notice that dinner is not cooking as quickly as anybody hoped.  After checking in with the cook, it was determined that the culprit was the oven.  After nearly an hour, the pork chops were still cold.  Fifteen minutes under the broiler and they were done.

Yes, this particular oven doesn't like pork chops.  I was tempted to say it didn't like pork at all, but the oven has previously demonstrated that it could cook pork roast.  As it turns out, this is not the only thing the oven doesn't like.  Turkey is another meat that will not cook in the oven.  Chicken yes, turkey no.

Experts from all over the cooking world are being called in to examine the recalcitrant food heating unit.  If I were a betting man, I'd put my money on hands in the air and quizzical looks.  Because I work at a non-profit, I can't even afford to wager on bets I am certain to win.

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I work with the salt of the earth.  Better coworkers I could not ask for, although their spouses may not entirely agree.

One fellow, who we'll call Bart, has been tending to a strangely sick cat for a while, trying to figure out what's wrong.  Unfortunately the answer is terminal and the kitty will have to be euthanized before they feel he's suffering.  The cat has been anorexic for a while and Bart believes the time is now.  Mrs. Bart, however, takes exception to the idea.  Just the other day she picked him up protectively, glared angrily at Bart, and said to the cat, "Daddy wants to kill you."

I have always suspected theirs was an interesting marriage.

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After marrying my wife, I inherited quite a few interesting sisters-in-law.  One was particularly large.  She stuck with the trend and is now so massive, she has her own gravity field.  In order to appear to be doing something about her massivity, she joined a step club.  

Cynics would say that if she spent one to three days less per week at the bar, the tons would slide off like mad.  

The step club gave everyone a pedometer, which meters how many steps the wearer has taken.  I believe the goal was 1500 per day.  One day upon realizing that she was nowhere near 1500, she demanded her husband wear it to work - so she could get the points for it.

Cynics would suggest they increase the distance between her house and the bar.

One night she waddled home from the bar, clearly in no condition to waddle.  It would have been better for her to call a cab to take her the whole block home.  In any case, she was so hungry, she kept picking up the tv remote, insisting it was a package of cheese crackers.

Low in sodium, high in iron, one would guess.

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