All I heard was a bang and the sink turning on. I turned away from the magazine that Stuart had assuredly put me down in front of to see the broiler open, his hand running under the water, and a sheepish look on his face. He’d touched the cookie sheet stored there, before realizing that it had gotten hot from the oven. He didn’t even yell out a stream of violently imaginative obscenities, like I would. But I could see he was frustrated.
Our oven isn’t cooperating with us lately. The old rusty heap is much beloved for its antique settings and its finicky pilot-light-less, but the door has a tendency to start malfunctioning every year and not closing properly. This will be the second time I have to call my somewhat-grumpy landlord in to screw it back into place or do a dance of forgiveness to the Clunky Old Oven Gods. Maybe he’ll have to replace our oven. On any other night but last night, this would bring me sorrow.
But as I let out a stream of violently imaginative obscenities over the fact that heat was escaping all over the stove top making it impossible to fry my bacon, and that the smoke of oil and grease from our cooking chicken breast was gently settling in thick waves around the ceiling, I probably said something about getting rid of this damn sputtering antique.
It was only twenty minutes later, as Stuart put the original Ealing Studio’s Ladykillers on the DVD player, and I was putting final touches on our dinner, that I think our mutual cooking frustrations subsiding. Because there was two steins full of airy bubbly beer to drink. There was a pair of sourdough loaves, topped with melted sharp cheddar, crispy bacon, juicy tomatoes, ripe avocados, and warm chunks of chicken breast. And as I wrote “i (heart) u” in mustard on Stuart’s sandwich, it suddenly didn’t matter that we took longer than usual to shake the cares of a weekday off our shoulders, or that we both grimaced repeatedly at a temperamental oven and burnt fingers and smoky ceilings.
There was a brilliant Alec Guiness, a tasty enormous sandwich made as a team (him: shopping, chicken, avocados; me: tomatoes, bacon, cheese) and a warm snuggle on the couch, limbs intertwined and stomachs happy.
That’s not bad, for a Monday night.
Cooking for Two
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Heh. Moody ovens are the worst. This summer I had to deal with an oven where you had to light the pilot light by sticking your head in the oven while holding a match to the gas. When the flame caught it went “fwoooom!” and I always felt a little too close to Sylvia Plath. Here’s hoping that you get lots more happy endings to dealing with ovens, and way fewer burned anythings.
not bad at all, for any night.
it’s a pleasure to know you two are finally together where you belong.
i’d like to offer you both a belated congrats on your nuptial bliss — i’m sure you two are going to have a lovely life together.
your post made me happy and hungry all at once. i like that