Archive for August, 2017

HOME ON THE RANGE

Not the kind “where the buffalo roam,” in that sentimental song of the old West — the kind that cooks — what I still call a stove.  Last week the oven died in the gas range in my condo kitchen.  Had tried self-cleaning, which didn’t work, and after that, neither did the oven.  Can’t be without an oven to bake my Irish soda breads and apple pies with homemade crusts.  (My mom always enjoyed her little pun:  “Eileen, you’ve got some crust!”)

I’m convinced that many appliances, along with some other modern conveniences, have gotten too complicated  — for me, anyway.  Though I have a basic cell phone, dabble on the Internet,  and get money (too often) from an ATM.  My husband wouldn’t go near any of them in his lifetime — smart, but not to be rushed, deliberate in his movements.  Speed and dexterity are called for now — fingers flying over smart phones.  These qualities aren’t generally germane to the elderly.

I remember watching my Grandma Beatty in her kitchen as she calmly turned out delicious Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners for 25 — herself, grandpa, aunts, uncles and cousins — cooking turkeys and all the fixings in a wood stove, throwing in big chunks to keep the fire burning evenly.  Kids fed first, then pretty much left on our own, chasing each other, playing games, sliding down the bannister, boy cousins taking turns riding up and down in the dumbwaiter — girls only allowed to keep watch for adults.

Wouldn’t really want to go back to  wood stoves.  But do newfangled ones have to be so complex?  The range was an older one, wasn’t worth repairing — $100 for the service call. Went to Home Depot, sales people scarce, none anywhere near appliance area. Only three gas ranges on display.  Finally ordered one a rare sales rep found on computer, to be delivered in several days, with later installation. With vision of stove sitting in my living room for a while, next day called and cancelled.

But now there’s a brand new Whirlpool gas range (4-1/2 stars out of 5) in my kitchen — reasonable price, black and stainless steel, 5 burners, a griddle, bought at Best Buy, where a helpful salesman approached as soon as I began to browse.   Delivered in two days, old range removed, new one immediately connected. All smooth sailing so far.  Not for long.

A 31 page Care and Use Guide came with the stove, 16 in English, then in French.  Had a quick lesson from installer, decided to bake Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits.  Mouth watering, put them on cookie sheet, tried to set oven temperature and timer, pressed digital control panel in proper places. But didn’t press Start button within 5 allotted seconds, 3 seconds to lock in. Finally got it right, but wouldn’t unlock when I decided to lower temperature for longer time, Pillsbury promising higher biscuits that way.

Called Best Buy — press Lock for three more seconds to unlock — which was on page 8 of  manual, which made my eyes and brain hurt. The biscuits were tasty, and I dunked them in homemade chicken soup for lunch.  Yesterday, I treated myself to infrequent bacon and eggs cooked on the griddle — let Angel lick some eggs from dish.  Then discovered flames on front burners, set on Low, were almost as high as Medium.  Repair coming Friday.   See what I mean?  Trivial troubles, I know.  But felt like sharing.

 

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BRIEF ENCOUNTERS

This morning, on the way to WaWa for my customary French vanilla decaf coffee, plain donut for dunking, and “The [real news] Washington Post,” I turned on Tredmore Road and saw a curious sight — a woman and two young children, sitting on folding chairs near the curb, holding up small handwritten signs. Couldn’t make out the message as I drove by — probably young entrepreneurs offering refreshments on a hot summer day, with mom supervising sales.

As I came near, all three held up the signs, hopeful smiles fading as I kept going. Felt a twinge — sorry I’d passed them by — decided to stop on the way back.  A boy about five — he reminded me of my grandson Nolan — and his sister, maybe six, were selling ice pops for a dollar, though none were in evidence.  And it was their aunt who’d encouraged the project while their mom visited their new baby sister in the hospital, kept there because of complications at birth.

I asked for an orange and an apple ice, gave each child a dollar, and they filled the order in the garage where the pops were kept frozen. I was their first and only customer, said the aunt.  They’d been discouraged and had started to walk away when I arrived. Now they were delighted, both beaming and dancing around, waving the money. The boy  suddenly ran and gave me an enthusiastic hug.  Worth more than a dollar.  Priceless.

This afternoon Angel and I visited Havre d’Grace again for a walk on the boardwalk, water for her and a coffee ice cream float for me at the Promenade Cafe. After, we relaxed in a gazebo,  met a retired kindergarten teacher, Myrtle, and her son Charley, who proudly told me: “Today’s my mom’s 103rd birthday!” His mother added emphatically: “And I’m in very good health!” Which she certainly seemed to be.  Charley told me he’s had cancer three times, last time seven years ago, when doctors said he’d only live three months.

You never know who’ll you meet when you stop along the way.  Or what you’ll learn if you do.

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