My Old Flame

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We've been together for more than 35 years and letting go is something I cannot countenance.
So I have decided to dismember her.

You won't find a butchered body in a barrel or entrails stuffed in a suitcase in the attic, for my relationship has been more platonic than physical. I hold out hope that with the help of a plumber, discarding the bottom section and keeping her top half should be relatively straightforward.

I'm a sentimental bloke who is about to rip the heart out of his home and in the process end a longstanding affair with a gas cooktop.

The Cannon Rotisserie De-Luxe Gas Cooker is one sexy stove, not a horrible hob. This cordon bleu piece of machinery revolutionised the way my family cooked in the 1980s. It was a Masterchef moment.

The installation was cataclysmic not catalytic, for it incorporated an eye-level gas griller/rotisserie that continues to burn brightly. None of this bend over business and sticking one's head in the oven to grill a chop or truly toast toast. Nothing beats roasting two nude poussin or a succulent slab of pork that gently twirls, oozes fat, perfectly browns and wafts wonderful aromas right up your nostrils.

Over time, the stovetop has whipped up white sauce in a double saucepan, stewed red cabbage, fried steak and chips, yes "the chips!" boiled spuds, steamed greens, bubbled bolognese and boiled kettles. Nothing remarkable but tried, tested, constant delights that were part of an ever-changing menu.

They don't make them like they used too and grilling is now positively electric, for some. With the demise of my domestic goddess I feel a palpable sense of loss and erosion of a particular quality.

Forming an attachment to an inanimate object is something I've struggled with for my entire life. Council cleanup days send me under the house and into the darkness sobbing as I decide what if anything should be consigned to landfill. It's beyond tragic, but true.

Breaking up is indeed not easy, so I've sought counsel through an architect who is doing all possible to keep my old flame alive. But the intricate operation will fail as the new kitchen layout is likely to reject implanting the grill.

As a result I'm officially a philanderer as a new girl will shortly arrive on the scene. Her name is Ilve, she's Italian and cuts a fine figure. We met online and I like her profile: hot, freestanding and prefers to cook. She's gassy and expensive to run but is compliant in all other areas. Sounds ideal to me.

Comments

  1. Merko Huggovitch25 February 2020 at 03:56

    Be careful how you twiddle, or manipulate, the knobs on those Italians. They can be tempestuous, especially from the Ilvé clan. But the results can be outstanding, especially if there is a Melinda involved.

    ReplyDelete

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