Item 24: A Kitchen Range

Arrrrghhhhh. Built-in obsolescence. I wonder if Obama could tackle that.

We bought this range as part of our kitchen remodel in 2005. Our kitchen was truly terrible—tired brown stuff everywhere–everything warped, tired and dirty.  The entire project was a case of  “as long as we are…” project creep.   But that’s another story. As part of the 2005 remodel we bought a shiny new stainless steel kitchen range, along with a refrigerator, dishwasher and range hood. We were so excited to have a bright red floor, nice clean cabinets (thank you Ikea!) and appliances that worked. We especially liked the looks of our stove. It was sleek and shiny and oh-so-cute.

We were so naïve.

You see, we believed that appliances should last. We were, we told the salesman, buying solid products that we knew would hold up. We declined the extended warranty.

Ha!

Within two years the control panel on the range stopped working. It was a slow death. First the timer conked out, and then the temperature control failed. For a while it worked if you whacked the front of the stove just right, but it was hit or miss and you had to whack it hard enough to risk injury. You had to whack it with the palm of your hand, not your fist, not a hammer, not a pan. It helped if you told it that it was a nice stove before you whacked it. Then for a while it worked on Tuesdays if you were wearing green and if you were happy with only baking things at 350 degrees, but that eliminated Brian’s legendary scones which require a solid 450 degree oven. Then one day out of the blue it became fully functional for a month or two and then, just as suddenly started to decline again.

We scoured the internet for solutions. We complained to the manufacturer to no avail, and finally gave in and spent $400 on a new control panel. Still cheaper than a new stove we reasoned.

We were so naïve.

We believed that the same part could not possibly fail again. The first time was just a fluke – bad luck.

Ha!

Yup. About a year the control panel failed again… same scenario only a much faster decline. We kissed another $400 goodbye, reasoning that it was still marginally cheaper than buying a new stove. We were blessed with a year and a half of a fully-functional stove. No whacking, no funny dances to the stove gods, no worries about the oven deserting you when you needed it most–like when you have house full of book club women waiting for baked cod.

Nirvana.

We were beyond naïve.

In the middle of the self-clean cycle (its first, I might add) the stove died. There was nothing slow about this death. No remissions, no rays of hope, no temporary sparks of life in the control panel— like the parrot in the old Monty Python skit, this stove was dead. The control panel was absent of even the tiniest glimmer of light, and the oven door was locked tight—stuck forever in self-clean mode.

We fought a little with the company with no satisfaction. They seemed to think it perfectly normal that the same part would fail THREE TIMES, finally offering us twenty percent off a replacement stove as if that was an offer so gracious that we should shout their praises from on high.

So we bought a new stove from a different manufacturer, and Monday morning Brian stayed home to great the new stove and wave goodbye to the old sorry excuse for a stove.

Our new stove is cute in its own way. It has bright blue lights and a warming drawer. It gives you a status report while it is pre-heating, and it has  a temperature probe.

It also has an extended warranty.

Day 6: An apron

Aprons are a big deal.

Type “Apron History” into a Google search and you will come up with more than 1,110,000 entries. For example, the 2006 exhibit at the Iowa Historical Society, “Women and Their Aprons Throughout History,” invited women to bring in their aprons and stories to share.

Search at Amazon.com for books about aprons and hundreds choices will flood your computer screen.

Historically, women wore aprons to protect their fine dresses while they baked pies, fetched eggs from the chicken coop and washed the dishes. When company came for dinner a proper lady would wear her apron until the last minute, and when she could finally sit down at the table, the apron would come off revealing her pristine dress underneath.

Now aprons are apparently making some sort a kitschy comeback. At a recent craft fair in Minneapolis, aprons were everywhere. Most of them seemed fancier than the kind of clothes I usually wear—and more expensive. I’d need an apron to protect my apron if I wore one of those.

Most women my age made an apron as their first sewing project in Home Economics. Mine was so poorly sewn that it bit the dust long ago. I think it fell apart in the washing machine. But despite the fact that I never wear aprons, I’ve kept two that my sister made for me. They hang with three other aprons I never wear on the back of the door from our kitchen to the basement.

I’m finally giving up one these relics – just one, mind you. I’m keeping the navy blue apron with the red rick-rack that my sister made because it’s so cool that she made it for me and that she got the rick-rack straight. I’m also keeping the souvenir apron from a cooking weekend at Schumacher’s Hotel, and I’m keeping two aprons that are sturdy and manly enough that my husband might wear them.