The heart is a fickle thing. Just four and a half years ago I fell in love and told everyone that I had met the object of my desire. My eyes lit up when I saw him. My pulse raced. I broke out in a light glow and my hands were even seen to shake a little in his presence. To see another near him made me nervous. What if he wandered? What if the hand of another touched him? Could I be the only one who found him irresistible? I knew that not to be true. I had seen others look at him and lust. I had overheard conversations about him. When I finally got him home I felt a satisfaction that was rare - never again would I be the one sweeping the mess under the carpet. He would leave no trace of dirt and chaos. He was, after all, a vacuum cleaner.
My Bisell has stood the test of time. There are days when I find its design difficult to fathom, which is why it is a masculine appliance. Who makes a bagless machine that chokes when it sucks up dog hair - it has to be a man! Besides some smallish issues I have been faithful to the vacuum. I have cast a few longing glances in the direction of others but I have a degree of loyalty to the less than new and exciting so I move on down the aisle and only ever window shop.
Apart from the vacuum cleaner most appliances are - well things I use but over which I can not raise much enthusiasm. As many will attest I am not the greatest cook you will ever meet. I can cook. I do cook. I have only ever poisoned three people, besides myself, that I know of, and that was unintentional (in my own defense: when I say don't eat the chicken I think it might be off it is a good idea to pay attention and not be polite!). So when I see a stove I generally do not get excited. A stove is, to my mind, an appliance that is a necessary evil. I rank it just below the food processor and above the garbage disposal. Not something I am going to talk about with strangers. I have one. I use one. I clean the top and what happens in the oven - stays in the oven.
Just a few days ago it was a calm, cloudless Saturday. There was no sign of the momentous event that was about to happen. In ignorance I strolled through the new electronic store towards the stove area. We need a new one since ours is slowly leaking gas, not a good thing I am guessing. I opened an oven door. I peered at the solid top of another. I yawned. My eyes glazed. It is not easy to find enthusiasm for stoves. Until the assistant lured me over to the display kitchen. She whispered, words best left unrevealed, in my ear. I moved across the floor and opened ... There was a rush of wind, a blinding light, and I think I heard the King's College Choir singing,before I even saw the brilliant blue interior. The two ovens were set in a wall at eye level (clearly not designed by a man). They had steel exteriors. They had glass you could see through. Inside they were ... a perfect blue. These were ovens to show off. Ovens that spoke of possibilities. Ovens that ... were never meant to be cooked in but rather used to calm the nerves of a hostess as she unpacked the take-aways before placing them in serving dishes. They might be used to keep a dish warm but NEVER for roasting or some other humdrum activity. Forget about the dogs and kids, in the event of a divorce the first thing to be addressed would be custody of the ovens. They were that amazing.
They also cost $6 000, without the stove top, but I think they are worth every cent. After all when one is going to buy haute couture one does not quibble over the price. So I shall lie in bed in the wee hours of the morning and dream of ovens. Gorgeous, clean, beautiful ovens. Ovens in which no roasting is done. Where never a cake is baked and not even a potato may rest upon a rack. Should I win the lottery you will know because the twins will be in the kitchen, of the new house, faster than you can say "Dinner is ready."
The personal chef might also be a clue!
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