I turned on the oven to bake something the other day, and within a few minutes, my daughter was wrinkling her nose and saying something smelled “funky”.  I looked at her.  I never claimed to be Julia Child.  If she doesn’t like how dinner smells, she should just keep it to herself.  Turning back to the sink, I went back to trying to wash a dish.  I hate washing dishes.  Dante had several levels to his Hell.  If I were to build Hell, I would put dirty dishes everywhere.  Then I would make people wash dishes for eternity.  That would teach them!

  After awhile, I began to smell something a little funky, too.  The dog had already had her bath, so it couldn’t be her…

I was puzzled.  What could be smelling like that?  It smelled kind of like—how can I describe the aroma?  If cigarettes had armpits, they would smell like the invisible cloud wafting through my little kitchen.   “No, it couldn’t be”.  I opened the oven door. 

There it was.  Fire. 

What is wrong with ovens, anyway?  You let a teeny, tiny little bit of grease and what-have-you build up in the bottom, under the element, and the oven lights up like a birthday cake.  Talk about attitude! 

I put the fire out.  After all, my first oven never worked again after catching fire and burning all the way around the element.  I had to get a new stove.  I don’t want another stove.  I really like this one.

After the oven had cooled down a bit, I did something wonderful.  Something not often seen by mortal man.  I cleaned my oven.  Well, I had to, unless I wanted another barbequed stove.

Now I can relax for another year or two.  Okay. Maybe not a year or two.  But I can dream, can’t I?