Obituary

an old stove and oven in a run down room

Even though it was the first hot day of spring at the cottage, I decided to cook chicken legs. They were barely thawed, but I had a great recipe that takes 2 hours in the oven, and then the meat falls right off the bone.

I dug around among the pots and pans, watching out for mouse poo, and found a dish with a cover that would work in the oven.

I was sitting on the couch, in my newfound favourite spot looking forward to two hours of me-time while the chicken legs baked. That’s when I heard a “pop” in the kitchen.

Oh, no, had that Pyrex casserole dish cracked? I opened the oven door and a little flame burst on the lower element. I shut the door quickly. My heart began to pound. I suffer from a lifelong fear of fire and here it was, alive and well in the back of the cooker.

I turned off the oven and got the box of baking soda ready beside me in case a roaring, out-of-control blaze was about to erupt.

I opened the door carefully. Everything inside looked innocent, as if mocking me for my insta-terror.

I took the dish of chicken out of the oven; the Pyrex wasn’t even hot.

Hmm, what to do? Go on bravely?

Sure, the flare on the element was probably just a mouse poo exploding. But I am not brave. So, I decided to forget about using the oven and instead, I put the chicken legs in a pan on the top of the stove to simmer for the rest of the afternoon.

They were delicious; the meat fell from the bones just how I like it. Not as crispy as oven baked, but who cares? Not me.

The next day, wet cloth in hand, I removed the racks from the oven so I could get a better look at whatever had combusted on the bottom.

There didn't seem to be anything in there, no crumbs, no grease dripping from the top, no mouse poop. I felt the element. It was smooth on the top and, ahhh, here was the problem, something was stuck on the back of it, exactly where I'd seen the burst of flame. I picked at it with my finger.

The piece of crud, or whatever it was, wasn't budging. It almost felt like rust. I applied the wet cloth, maybe it needed a bit of soaking.

I picked at it again. Nope. Whatever it was, was not coming off. Or maybe the element had a rusty spot.

I shut the oven door and sat down on the couch to google, “element broken in oven how to repair.”

It was then that I discovered how close I had come to a Sylvia Plath type death. They would have found me draped over the open oven door, electrocuted, not gassed like she was, but still pretty literary!

According to Google, the smooth part of the oven element houses a live current. A big, jolting current that requires its own electrical outlet, hidden and dusty behind the stove. It's got its own breaker for chrissake.

When the element blows it's because the wire carrying the current inside the housing, touches the casing of the element and blows a hole in it. I was picking at that hole, with a wet dish rag.

That would have been in my obituary. She died like one of her literary heroes; flopped over the oven door, but accidentally; she had no intention of dying that day.

Close Encounters of the Deadly Kind

How about you? Have you ever done something as stupid as I did? I’d love to hear from you. Reply to this email or drop a comment wherever you read this post.

Inspired By My Friend, Peter Sherwood…

…a recipe to go with my post. Peter posts recipes inspired by all kinds of books, and he’s got fabulous taste in books, let me tell you. Check out his blog and tell him Sandy sent you.

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Haunted by war. Silenced by family. Desperate to be heard—at last.

After surviving the trenches of WWI, Fred Sadler expects peace, purpose, and a place in his family. Instead, plagued by anxiety and misunderstood by those closest to him, he slips further and further into the margins of life.

Now it’s 1986, and Fred is dead. But death doesn’t stop him from hovering at his own funeral, tethered to his bitter-tongued sister-in-law as she tells a version of his life he hardly recognizes. Watching, remembering, and bristling at Viola’s distortions, Fred aches for someone to understand the truth about him at last.

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