Well, after a fairly short, but intense bout of consideration yesterday, I plunked down a few hundred bucks for a new stove on the way to the farmers market.
After the brandied-peach electrocution project the night before last, and knowing what new elements on my old stove cost (having been shocked at the replacement cost of one just last year), I decided to replace the whole unit rather than fix it.
Too, when M asked for homemade macs n’ cheese yesterday for lunch, I realized I couldn’t turn on my stove (or thought it wiser not to) or even think about canning the dilly beans I’d like to do today or roasting the veggies or, you know, dealing with any of this massive amount of food coming through my doors on a daily basis.
In short, I felt helpless in the face of my child’s hunger for actual real food and in the face of the seasonal produce overload, and I do not like to feel helpless. Or like if I turn on my stove, I might burn down my house.
Usually that means pulling out the toolbox (OK–or asking H to take out his ;-)). Yesterday it meant pulling out the plastic.
What’s nice about living in a small town is you can call your appliance guy (that’s Murph’s), ask what they’ve got, stop by, check it out, pay for it, and be on your way in ten minutes–knowing they will bring it the next day and take the old one away for no extra charge. It will get done.
The process might be lubricated a bit by the fact that I’ve bought every (new) appliance in this house from them (including the stove it took me seven years to kill), but I don’t know that that’s necessarily true. Those guys are just good.
So, I spent the first part of my morning (after my first cup of coffee, of course) scrubbing the floor and walls and ceiling around and under the stove area in preparation.
At least I’ll get to use it for a few weeks until I head up to Minnesota, and I’ll feel more comfortable knowing that I probably won’t be getting a call from whoever ends up living here saying that the stove’s gone out.