Kitchen Drama

5893d1a9_originalIt is leftover night. I chopped the last red onion–the only onion in the house–and sauteed it in vegetable oil. Poor thing, its salad days were over. I added two grizzled italian sausages, cooked, that have been languishing in the fridge for the best part of a week. In the pantry, I found some red chilis stuffed with anchovies, the remaindered part of a long-ago Christmas hamper and way past their smart sell-by date. Into the pan they went, together with some of Ms. Monroe’s excellent homemade salsa. I beat up 4 eggs and some feta cheese I found lurking in the one of those compartments where no one ever goes–the ones in the fridge door that are not shaped like eggs, and have little lids like old-fashioned lunch boxes. I put on the broiler, slid the pan under the flame and waited for browned and bubbling delight.

Fritata finished and perfect, I moved to turn off the broiler. My stove has one of those key pads like a smart phone. You hit start to cook and then cancel when it is time to eat. But my cancel wouldn’t cancel. All the other buttons on the dashboard still beep, but not the one that cuts the flame and saves on the gas bill. As supper cooled, the temperature in the kitchen climbed to unbearable heights. My oven, like every other being in the house, tends to overshare. My Kitchen Aid is sumo-sized and immovable so unplugging it wasn’t an option. Sweating, I sought the circuit board in the futility room. Naturally, this was barricaded by a Baker’s rack stacked with enough Pyrex, fruit and salad bowls and other assorted kitchen paraphenalia to launch a Catholic school cafeteria. I swung one side away from the wall and braced it against my body as I reached for the circuit breaker marked Range. ( I need hardly state that the board was labelled by the previous owner of the Blarney Abode). The bowls bickered like children. They are usually disturbed only at Christmas. Several teetered like townies taking their chances walking on on a chalky seaside cliff, but righted themselves just in time. The stove is a dead dark thing. The dinner was delightful. It is now a scant 80 degrees in here. Who wants to bet I am still turning the cooker on and off from the circuit board two years from now?IMG_1893


About Liz Barron

US Peace Corps Volunteer in Armenia. Permanent address in Washington DC. Deep roots in Northern Ireland and persistent Belfast accent. Blogger,cook, mother, grandma, Scrabble-player and enthusiastic world traveler.
This entry was posted in Cooking with the Crone, Crone as Casualty and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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