The Busted Stove
Living at the condo was crazy. We’d lived there since I was 2. There were times my mom didn’t know what to do.
My brother was a picky eater, so it was tough to please his pallet.
One day, Mom had to work late.
“You can heat up frozen pizza for the kids,” was what my mom said. “I’ll be back late. She told us to be good, then told Dad not to burn the place down.
From the living room, I was watching TV. My dad said “Dinner will be in forty minutes”.
“OK,” was my reply.
I went back to watching TV while my dad made dinner. I could hear him preheating the oven. Afterwards, he came to see what I was up to.
Beep!
Back in the kitchen went Dad to put the pizza in the oven. Once I heard the oven door shut, I heard him setting the timer for the pizza’s cooking. “It’ll be a half hour,” he told me.
“OK, Dad”, I answered.
A few minutes went by, and I heard. . .
HISSSSSSSS.
Dad checked the stove to find out why the pizza wasn’t cooking as it should.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, coming around the corner.
“It won’t be much longer,” he said. “Go back and watch TV.”
Minutes dragged.
Still no pizza smell.
Eventually Daddy had to call 9-1-1.
Within about 4 minutes or less, the fire department arrived.
One man asked Dad what the problem was, and he explained about how the oven wasn’t working correctly when he was trying to cook a frozen pizza for us.
The other guy stayed with me.
He asked me what my name was.
“Nico”, I answered. He could tell I was scared.
“we’re trying to figure out what’s wrong, so you guys can have dinner, “ he told me.
Later on, I heard the firefighters tell dad that it was a good thing he had a fire extinguisher. The small fire was just contained to the kitchen. We’re so lucky that it didn’t spread to the living room, where I happened to be watching TV during the time my dad was attempting to heat up dinner for the three of us.
“How old is the stove?” the firefighters asked my dad.
“We moved in to the condo in 1986, and the stove has been here since we moved in.
“The stove is old, and it’s seen it’s last days,” replied one officer.
“Your stove is old”, the firefighters said to my dad. “We recommend that you buy a new one.
I don’t remember what we ended up doing for dinner that night after the firemen left.
Dad told Mom what hat happened.
We ate microwave dinners the next night.
At least once, Dad went across the street to the tavern and returned with burgers and fries for us.
That weekend, we ended up buying a new stove. Back then, I think we bought our appliances from Montgomrey Wards (Monkey Wards, as Mom called it).
A gas stove did the trick.
I remember one day, I helped Mom make potatoes.
I sat at the sink to peel and wash potatoes and green beans, then shift them over into a pot on the stove-all while siting in a dining room chair.
My brother was a picky eater, so it was tough to please his pallet.
One day, Mom had to work late.
“You can heat up frozen pizza for the kids,” was what my mom said. “I’ll be back late. She told us to be good, then told Dad not to burn the place down.
From the living room, I was watching TV. My dad said “Dinner will be in forty minutes”.
“OK,” was my reply.
I went back to watching TV while my dad made dinner. I could hear him preheating the oven. Afterwards, he came to see what I was up to.
Beep!
Back in the kitchen went Dad to put the pizza in the oven. Once I heard the oven door shut, I heard him setting the timer for the pizza’s cooking. “It’ll be a half hour,” he told me.
“OK, Dad”, I answered.
A few minutes went by, and I heard. . .
HISSSSSSSS.
Dad checked the stove to find out why the pizza wasn’t cooking as it should.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, coming around the corner.
“It won’t be much longer,” he said. “Go back and watch TV.”
Minutes dragged.
Still no pizza smell.
Eventually Daddy had to call 9-1-1.
Within about 4 minutes or less, the fire department arrived.
One man asked Dad what the problem was, and he explained about how the oven wasn’t working correctly when he was trying to cook a frozen pizza for us.
The other guy stayed with me.
He asked me what my name was.
“Nico”, I answered. He could tell I was scared.
“we’re trying to figure out what’s wrong, so you guys can have dinner, “ he told me.
Later on, I heard the firefighters tell dad that it was a good thing he had a fire extinguisher. The small fire was just contained to the kitchen. We’re so lucky that it didn’t spread to the living room, where I happened to be watching TV during the time my dad was attempting to heat up dinner for the three of us.
“How old is the stove?” the firefighters asked my dad.
“We moved in to the condo in 1986, and the stove has been here since we moved in.
“The stove is old, and it’s seen it’s last days,” replied one officer.
“Your stove is old”, the firefighters said to my dad. “We recommend that you buy a new one.
I don’t remember what we ended up doing for dinner that night after the firemen left.
Dad told Mom what hat happened.
We ate microwave dinners the next night.
At least once, Dad went across the street to the tavern and returned with burgers and fries for us.
That weekend, we ended up buying a new stove. Back then, I think we bought our appliances from Montgomrey Wards (Monkey Wards, as Mom called it).
A gas stove did the trick.
I remember one day, I helped Mom make potatoes.
I sat at the sink to peel and wash potatoes and green beans, then shift them over into a pot on the stove-all while siting in a dining room chair.