It seems like only yesterday that we met. We had just signed the papers on our first home, took the keys in our hands, and could finally claim ownership of you. You were, like the rest of the house, getting on in years, but that was part of your charm. We anticipated many meals with your assistance and could imagine, even from the beginning, the wonderful smells that would fill our home thanks to you.
From that very first day, you were faithful to help bake some truly awful concoctions (I remember one particular rice and chicken casserole that was, in a word, soggy) and some truly amazing concoctions. Any fault in the outcome of these dishes was mine entirely, and you always preheated just right, cooked evenly, and did exactly what we expected you would. You were such a good oven!
But, alas, thirty years is a long time in “house years.” We hadn’t been here six months before your distant cousin, the garage door, suffered a sprung spring (sprung the wrong way, mind you) and had to be replaced, door and springs and all. Then, your great-uncle, the fence, required a bit of attention, and by the time it was looking young again, we found ourselves needing to replace your step-sisters, the bathroom fixtures. Oh, thirty is definitely not the new twenty in house years!
Still, though, you continued on valiantly and bravely as the oldest appliance in the house… until VBS. I thought the mistake was mine when the brownies I made were baked on top and gooey on the bottom. I even explained it away by saying that surely I was going senile and had left out some ingredient. I would have gone on convincing myself of this, but the same thing has happened a few more times since. And last night, when faced with yet another brownie disaster (this time for a church potluck — WHBC folks must think I’m trying to kill them with my cooking!), I finally admitted the truth. Your time has come. (Wes tried to resuscitate you, but it was all for naught, as you wouldn’t even preheat to 350 after an entire hour. Sigh.)
I can only imagine how many meals you cooked before we arrived here, and I thank you for all you cooked over the past three years. We’ve arranged for a kind and humane disposal for you, courtesy of the local appliance store, and we can assure you that in looking for your replacement, we’ve learned that they just don’t make them like you anymore. (Seriously, you are like the skinniest oven in the world. We had to special order one that would actually fit in your tiny, little space!)
So, we bid you a fond farewell, oven. Rest in peace! (And would you mind giving us a heads-up on which of your relatives will be the next to go? My money is on the dishwasher, but Wes says it’s the stovetop.)
Question to all of you homeowners out there — does this replacement process ever end?!