Yesterday my stove started flaming.
Not in the helpful, cooking way.
In the on-fire-run-outside-and-turn-the-gas-off kind of way.
The plumber has been today and confirmed it’s probably going to be more cost effective to replace it than to fix it. ”An opportunity to shop”, he said.
Since he’s left, I’m in floods of tears. David bought me this stove.
Prior to this lovely shiny smeg, I had a fifteen year old rusted, stained bit of junk with only two working burners. A stove didn’t factor high on the (very long) list of things to spend cash on around the
money pit farm. So I persevered with it for four long years until David out of the blue said he’d find me one. He measured up the space and then in his quiet, helpful way, found me a quality stove top and got a deal.
I’ve cooked many meals on this cooktop since then. I’ve made celebratory dinners and welcome home meals. We’ve covered the kitchen in home made pasta and cooked up his favourite beef stroganoff. I even cooked a birthday dinner for him; although the guest of honour was absent – working miles away in Indo and no doubt dining on “nasi something”.
Since the accident I’ve cooked on it and thought of him.
About his thoughtfulness.
About how if the party was going on outside and I was in the kitchen, he would always seek me out.
Squeeze my shoulders.
Check if I needed help.
Make sure my drink was topped up.
I, of all people, should have some perspective about this. It’s only a stove. No one was hurt when it caught on fire.
But today I’m not being reasonable. Today I’m sad. He’s worth it.