Notes from the River

The comforting smell of warm brownies fills the air. I feel a sense of calm wash over me as one of my thanksgiving contributions is finished. But, as I open the oven, a jolt of terror hits me – the brownies are raw. 20 minutes in the oven at 350° and nothing to show for themselves. I slam the oven door shut in defeat.

This event is a flashpoint in the escalating Cold War between myself and the fleet of Frigidaire appliances that my landlord has bequeathed to me (read: burdened me with).

Last week my dishwasher got replaced after a tense war of attrition between the two of us. It would crap out, I’d put in a maintenance request, and suddenly it worked again. Rinse and repeat. In April, the microwave died after four long years of service. No appliance seems to last in my apartment.

I don’t blame these new machines at all. They used to be top of the line, built to last, covered in chrome, and in some 1950’s housewife’s kitchen – being given the respect they deserve. Now they’re made of shitty plastic and metal and are just as sad as I am. They have to look at the same boring grey vinyl floors as I have to!

I’ve decided that my response to the mass death of my appliances is to fully embrace Neo-luddism. I’m going to build an illegal wood fire on my balcony and cook perpetual stew. I’m going to start preserving my meat only using salt. I’ll make real butter from buttermilk. I’ll join an Amish community – maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

I can guarantee you one thing though: until I decide exactly how to embrace “analog” cooking, or my landlord replaces the oven, I will be complaining to anyone who will listen, about how my fucking oven is fucking broken.