Any homeowner will tell you the most important room in the abode is the kitchen. It’s where the food is found, where The Dog cools off on the vinyl, where everybody congregates during a party and – most importantly – where most of your money goes.
The kitchen was one of the first rooms to be painted when we bought The House. “The neon baby blue,” The Bride said, “must go.” And so it went. Off-white went up.
Then the cabinet hardware went down, replaced by something much better, I was told. Some cabinet doors followed suit, but quickly went back up with added glass.
The vinyl somehow has stayed, but only because The Bride finally sickened of Kitchen Chores – but not before she decided that the oven and range should be painted to match the fridge.
“The brown,” The Bride said, “must go.” And so it went, along with the oven doors, cooktop range, to be “reporcelained and furnace fired at 1,500 degrees.”
My suggestion to have me paint the oven doors myself with Testors Gloss Enamel, metallic silver maybe, went unheeded.
Now these are all cosmetic chores, to hasten the resale of The Home, to elicit compliments during those parties where the kitchen is crammed with people.
“What a lovely oven door. Hand me a beer, buddy.”
But kitchen chores are not limited to the beautification process. There are items such as emergency repair.
First came the leaky faucet. No big problem. Only that the water turnoff was frozen solid. Even my handy-dandy neighbors couldn’t help.
“Call a plumber,” they said. “Here’s the bill,” said the plumber.
Next came the busted garbage disposal connector. I was soaked through, moving everything out of the cabinet, putting a pot underneath the spewing water, mopping everything up, thinking that I just saw a white whale, then making a trip to the hardware store and replacing the part myself. But I didn’t have to call a plumber.
This calls for a celebratory dinner. Maybe some rotisserie duck.
We have a built-in O’Keefe & Merritt with double oven compartments (upper for baking and roasting, bottom for broiling and rotisserie). As I’m trying to figure out the broiling and rotisserie operation, the bottom door comes off its hinges, so I find the owner’s manual.
It even has the business card of the “home economist” pinned inside. And her phone number: Riverside 1-3711. Did I mention that The House was built in 1941?
An appliance repairman is called instead. They don’t make parts for this size oven, he says. They don’t make this size anymore. I think he thinks I’m stupid.
The hinges are broken, but he does get the door in working order and only charges me for a service call. He does not, however, rave about the color of the door. But he does say: “This was a great-cooking oven in its day.”
Of course, we won’t be serving rotisserie duck any time soon.
