Open letter to my oven.

There you sit, in the oven-corner, blank, white, with no expression. I know, that's only because I pulled out all your wires, the ones that gave you a clock face and the ability to register heat and control the cooking, and so forth. Also, those wires powered your manic beeping, so, you know, I guess I kind of had to kill you.

But you were totally asking for it.

just sitting there like
a son of a bitch.

What's annoying, now, is that I make the categorical move--dinner--and think of things that I could bake. Or roast. In general, things that require a working oven. Well, too bad, because I pulled your wires, so no more baking or roasting or things that require a working oven. It's all stovetop now. Nothing but noodles and stir fry.

I feel like a character in an Edgar Allen Poe story, and I don't like it. You and your tell-tale beep.

Oven, you are there and not there.

Oven, I can't quit you, but you are getting on my nerves. You can't do one damn thing except be there, taking up oven-space in the cabinet built specially for you, and enacting the form of an oven but with no function.

It's like your tiny corner of the kitchen is a model home made out of broken things. Where are the cookies and casseroles of yesteryear?

Ugh, I have got to go to Lowe's,

htms