Over the weekend we bought a new stove. For me, this is right up there with being given a diamond. Not much for jewelry really. Oh, I wear my diamond ring for its sentimental significance, two dainty bracelets, all gifts from Rick, and when I go out in the world I wear earrings. Like a freshly cut Christmas tree, other than a hint of ice I come relatively unadorned. Truth be known, I’d rather receive gifts for the kitchen any day. Book, kitchen, and bed and bath stores sit right at the top of my list of favorite haunts. Over the years I’ve whiled away many an hour roaming kitchen emporiums admiring all the colorful interesting gadgets and whatnots available for sale.
The stove was purchased out of necessity, as the one we have now, propane powered, is shot. Our last, as the one preceding it, was electric, not my favorite either. Gas cooktop is my preference with an electric oven, but propane is the existing energy source and we’re not investing a fortune to convert to gas simply to put a smile on Susie’s face. That was a direct quote from management. This one is SS, with five burners, the center one also a griddle. Originally we’d planned this purchase to follow not precede the holidays. However, a strange side effect of using the current stove made it necessary to push the date forward. As the song goes, “Susie’s as high as an elephant’s eye”, or the corn is, or something to that effect. It seems when the metal in the oven ages beyond its life expectancy it can emit fumes making it dangerous to use. Already silly enough with very little prodding, the fumes were not enhancing the quality of the meals produced by our kitchen staff. Last week while preparing carrot soup needing a pinch of chopped sage, in my euphoria I tossed in the whole bunch leaves intact, unwashed and tied. Minutes later I noticed my mistake floating along atop my soup like a recent homicide victim. Rick watching this, shook his head. He often does.
Later, discussing with him a Vietnamese restaurant advertising a sandwich he likes, I kept saying Vietmanese rather than the proper pronunciation. Correcting myself, I came up with, “Vinametnese”. Hmmm. Rick commented on my odd behavior after several such occurrences. He hadn’t mentioned it previously he said because for him it is apparently difficult to differentiate between my odd behavior and my normal behavior as my normal behavior often mirrors my odd. Uh, thank you for that keen observation. Okay I make up cat songs for Boo while I’m cleaning the house and actually celebrate Clean Sheet Day, but doesn’t everybody?
Hopefully this hasn’t resulted in any permanent damage as I’m quite sure I don’t have many gray cells to spare having used up the majority during my forgettable late twenties tequila shot days. Raising my kids, husbands, and animals claimed a good portion of the rest. Wandering about the house lately trying to remember what I was looking for when I first started in the direction I was headed confirms my fears I need to hold on to as many as I have left for the years looming ahead.
In the past, I’ve had run ins with appliances. I’ve written about many, possibly including my encounter with a gas stove when in my teens. On the odd chance I did not, I will now. In ninth grade, my best friend Michaelin, Mike to her friends (her parents wanted a boy), lived directly across the ivy from me in our apartment complex. Both latchkey kids, we walked to and from school together often hanging out at one house or the other after school until our parents came home. Once free of our school clothes, a snack was usually in order. On this day it was to be mini tacos at her house.
Mike turned on the oven and opened the door, placing the tray of tacos inside. Before closing it, I commented it smelled like gas. Upon closer examination, with not enough brainpower to create an original thought in a gnat, we finally determined the pilot light was out. Always full of suggestions then as now, I said I’d seen my stepfather light ours with a long kitchen match by inserting it in one of holes on the bottom of the stove. Piece of cake. So, handing Mike the match and box I stood to her rear as she dragged it across the flint and leaned to insert the lit match in the hole. Lambs to the slaughter. KABOOM! We were propelled across the kitchen like two Siamese twin stuntmen in a Die Hard sequel landing in an untidy pile in the corner. Aside from the ringing in my ears I seemed all right. All my limbs were attached and other than a long gash on one hand I appeared relatively uninjured. I did smell burnt hair. Mike began concurrently screaming while beating herself on the head. Odd. Turning towards me her blonde bangs present prior to the explosion were reduced to short, black, smoldering stubs and her face was the color of someone recently involved in French fry diving.
Without stopping to speak, I grabbed her hand and dragged her upstairs to the bathroom. Turning the shower on cold I shoved her in. With the water running full blast I couldn’t hear the fireman beating on the door downstairs. Before long, several of them stormed through the bathroom door dragging a long hose dragging behind them. Examining us, an ambulance was summoned. Downstairs looked like a case for FEMA disaster relief. Unable to get an answer at the door, and the door locked, the firemen broke it down. It now lived in the ivy out front. Oh boy. No bangs, no door, no stove …..secretly I prayed the hospital was in a small village along the Amazon or possibly the Outback of Australia because no matter how you cut the bread when our parents got home they weren’t going to like the sandwich.
In the end Mike wore fake bangs until hers grew in and her face returned to a hue found on the color pallet under skintones . For me, I didn’t have to shave my legs for months. Both of us gave up our allowance until the new door was paid for, and neither of us lit the stove ever again. When I got back to school word had spread like wildfire (no pun intended) about our misadventures. Rumors ranged from our heads having blown off and landing in the swimming pool to a nuclear blast occurring only in our neighborhood. Once again the universe got a taste of me and spit me back out. Sigh.
This was quite yummy. Passed down several times it has altered from the original but I liked this one a lot.
Lemony Tuscan Asparagus
1 bunch asparagus trimmed (1 1/2 lbs.)
3/4 cup cherry tomatoes, halves
1/4 cup red onions, thinly sliced
1/2 cup toasted pine nuts
3 Tbsp. olive oil, divided
3 garlic cloves, minced
1/8 tsp. red pepper flakes
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/2 lemon sliced thin
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. lemon zest
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese, grated
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Cover cookie sheet with tin foil. Spray with cooking spray. Place asparagus, tomatoes, onions, and pine nuts in large mixing bowl. In separate bowl mix 2 Tbsp. olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. Pour over vegetables and toss to coat. Spread in single layer on prepared cookie sheet. Top with lemon slices.
Bake for 15 mins. or until tender. Meanwhile combine lemon juice and remaining 1 Tbsp. olive oil. Remove asparagus from oven and pour lemon juice/olive oil mixture over top. Sprinkle with lemon zest and cheese. Serves 4.