It began with the microwave, which expired noisily three weeks before Christmas.
Off I trolled to the local electrical store. “What kind of microwave do you want?” asked the barely adolescent assistant. “One suitable for a technological idiot,” I said, “but it has to be grey, to go with the kitchen.” (Don’t tell me. My priorities are all wrong. I had to settle for a silvery finish in the end.)
The new microwave’s Book of Destructions ran to 27 pages. I filed it under ‘things to read when I have time’, which is basically a foot-high slush pile of unread newspapers, magazines, catalogues and might-be-useful-sometime cuttings. I carried on happily relying on hob and oven, barely missing the microwave – though there was a marked increase in saucepan use and lengthy periods of standing looking out the kitchen window waiting for things to boil, steam or heat through. “I really must read the microwave book,” I thought, “… but not today.”
Arrived home cold and exhausted from a delayed flight after a lovely Christmas with Daughter Dear, all of whose kitchen appliances are so state-of-the-art I barely know how to boil a kettle in her house. I decanted a tin of soup into a saucepan on the hob and switched on. There was a sort of dull ‘phut’ and the little red light died. All four hotplates remained stone cold. O… M… G. Two appliances down. Only the oven and grill left. Uttering words that should never pass a lady’s lips, I scrabbled about in the freezer and found an elderly quiche, considerably past its eat-by date. “I’ll risk it,” I thought. Waiting for it to cook, I decided to use the time constructively by finding the microwave booklet. Then I remembered. While doing a hasty pre-Christmas tidy-up, I’d heaved the entire slush pile, UNCHECKED, into the recycling bin, which was emptied the following day.
Next morning saw me at the electrical store on the dot of nine. In the half-acre of household appliances, they had precisely FOUR hobs in stock – all black, glassy and glossy, all wee cryptic symbols and no visible controls. “I want a white one – with knobs on,” I said, “exactly like the one I’ve got.” The young man sucked his teeth and scrolled through his electronic gizmo for an age, while I watched like a hawk over his shoulder. “That’s it!” I yelped, jabbing suddenly at the screen, nearly knocking his glasses off. “Ah,” said the young man, “we can’t deliver this model till Thursday the 3rd.” “That’ll do,” said I, recklessly reconciling myself (at the time of writing) to another four days plus one for installation, without the means of boiling an egg.
Daughter Dear, who’d spent the previous evening frying my ear off on the phone, extolling the virtues of ‘induction hobs,’ was incandescent when I reported back. “Honestly Mum, you’re a throwback to the Dark Ages.” And I recalled my own mother examining my wedding present Kenwood mixer with all its attachments (including dough hooks). The probability of my using it on a regular basis, was, shall we say, remote. She was a bread and cake maker. I was neither. Would she like to borrow it? Not a chance. She was a hands-on, hands-in cook, set in her ways.
But that’s all by the by. I’m living on toast, roasts and grilled things, oven chips and what the Loving Spouse used to refer to gloomily as “coul’ oul’ salad.” (What hardship, you’re thinking.) My cholesterol levels have probably rocketed and I’d give anything for a plain boiled potato, the scent of home-made vegetable soup blipping quietly on a low heat, or the pervasive aroma of a stew you could sniff through the letterbox coming back from school. They were the unchanging, ‘everything’s alright’, reassuring smells of home.
As Kitty of Coleraine discovered ‘misfortunes they never come singly ‘tis plain,’ I’m waiting for the third thing to go kaput. The dishwasher has begun to emit strange groans. Happy New Year and continued good health to you – and all your appliances.
