(re-post)
It was a most unusual stove. I thought it only had two burners - what a lovely excuse for not cooking at times.
The stove was in one of those used appliance stores, (on Queen Street East in Toronto), that has stoves and refrigerators and washers and dryers literally "tucked" into place.
A wringer washer and two freezers upended on each other had to be moved so I could get near to the stove. And it was only when I had asked the price and about delivery charges that the owner decided I was a serious buyer and moved a fridge out of the way so I could stand in front of the stove and open the oven door.
This was when I discovered that there were the normal four burners - they slid out of the way under the oven. The oven was at eye level - such a logical height for an oven - and had a glass door. I'd never watched a cake of mine rise. Maybe I could discover why my muffins didn't!
A large two-tiered storage unit swung neatly out from under the burners. The entire stove was stainless steel and glass.
If you are the type of person who becomes attached to inanimate objects then you will understand my sweaty palms and quickened heart beat. It was love at first sight between me and that stove.
But things were not to go smoothly. The problem was not in the ritual of buying. The difficulty was in understanding how the stove worked. And making it do so.
The owner did not even bother to answer when I asked if there was an instruction booklet with the stove.
"I'll show you how she works," he said.
I may possibly, one day, forget the stove. (I haven't, obviously!) I will never forget the seller of the stove. His name was Norm, no names changed to protect anyone.
He had a growth out of the corner of his mouth that smoked - I guess it was a cigarette but it bore little resemblance to the neat white cylinders that come in packs. And, of course, the smoke rising kept one eye permanently squinted.
It's hard to carry on a conversation with someone who talks without moving his lips, who appears to be in a perpetual wink, who shouts, and who is more stubborn than I am.
Norm showed me how the stove worked. Learning to fly a plane will be a breeze compared to the learning of how to operate the appliance.
The stove was delivered. It wouldn't work. At least not all of it. At least not all the time.
The delivery men phoned the store. I could hear Norm shouting clear across the kitchen. "Just push the infinite switch!" he kept saying.
We had had a bit of a discussion about this "infinite switch" when he was showing me how to work the stove in the store. I may one day come across an infinite switch that is logical and actually does something. But the little dial that tells how long meat should be cooked on my lovely stove is not an infinite switch and twirling it a million times is not the reason the stove does or does not work.
Norm finally got so mad at the delivery men saying they had pushed the infinite switch but the stove still wasn't working properly that he had them lug the heavy thing back to the store. It would have been easier, quicker, simpler for him to come to the stove, but, no, the stove had to go back to him.
Time passed. No stove. No call from Norm. I finally had to give in and phone him - pressure from a family tired of eating meals that could be made without a stove.
"She's been sitting here waiting for you," he said. "Nothing the matter. Like I said. Just push the infinite switch. Come and check her out before I deliver her again."
I went. I checked. She - uh - it worked.
A few weeks later the erratic behaviour started again. In spite of the guarantee I bypassed Norm and had a friend, an electrician, look at it. He found the problem in the timing system. (And simplified how to use the stove.)
I never got enough nerve to phone Norm and tell him. But I take great delight in operating that stove without ever, ever, pushing the infinite switch.
from Adventures of a Homebody circa 1983
Posted on June 12, 2007 at 06:02 AM | Permalink
Comments