Silence of the Pans, or

The time I scrubbed the stove within an inch of its life and then sent it to bed without supper.

Did I say I sent the stove to bed without supper? I missed a comma after the word bed.

I cleaned the oven.

Technically, it cleaned itself, right? It’s a self-cleaning oven, but it hasn’t had the sense to clean itself for the past two years.

I tried to allow it the dignity of coming to the truth of its hygienic condition. Still, after fat drippings from the oven floor occluded the delicious odor of an expensive pot roast, on impulse, I locked its door and started its cycle.

It seems I offended the stove with my precipitous action. Billows of smoke overpowered the kitchen exhaust; it forced me to turn on the air purifier and open the doors.

While it was on lock-down, I suppose I added insult to injury. Its burner drip pans were the elephant in the room; when everything else was clean, the burnt-on gobs of yummy sauces stood as globulous monuments to past enjoyment.

It ceased to belch smoke two hours into the four-hour and 20-second cycle—no further signs of sentience.

The stove is tucked in, antiseptic, sparkling clean, inoffensive, and ready for use. So why do I feel like I lost a friend?

Did past reminders of glorious feasts mean more than I realized?

Violently, I erased the evidence of holiday Yorkshire pudding cradled in rendered beef fat in muffin tins and overstuffed homemade pizza that lost a few bits as it was golden-browning.

Carelessly, I obliterated the spots where the overzealous Beef Wellington juices bubbled out of its crust and over the edge of the cookie sheet – a rookie mistake on my part; I should have used a jelly roll pan.

Sorrowfully, I no longer see the scraps of burnt sourdough loaves I made from scratch – two years ago while experimenting with wild yeast and sourdough starters - before our household went keto.

I have done this myself; there is no one else to blame for the silence of the drip pans.

Depressed, I went without supper.

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