A little over a week ago, we went shopping. Shopping for what I thought was supposed to be a new oven and range. We went to all the requisite stores and heard all the commissioned sales pitches about what we should buy, and what we shouldn’t, and wand we really want, and what we won’t be happy with (isn’t it funny how a potential sale somehow turns otherwise strangers into experts on the level of happiness and wellbeing in your home?). And then we made a decision. One based purely on research and fact. Well, research and fact that told us there was a massive sale and this place had free delivery and haul-away, anyway.
Now let me back up and say that a month ago we weren’t in the market for a new oven. In fact, a month ago I could have listed a hundred other things in our lives that would have received $400 worth of attention well before an oven was even brought up as a potential candidate (not excluding a slew of Star Wars Legos for my husband, of course). But this funny little thing called the Super Bowl happened, and we invited the youth over to watch and feast. The watching wasn’t the problem. It was the feasting. Our oven wasn’t up to feasting that night apparently. In fact, it only allowed us about an hour and a half of feast prep before there was a pop and a flash and everything went cold.
For those of you familiar with the oven world, you already know that the pop and flash syndrome is not good. Not good at all. For the rest of us, a simple Google search of error code F1 tells us all we need to know about a little part called the “electronic oven control”. A little part that just so happens to cost about as much as a new range – before what it would cost to pay someone armed with more knowledge than what you can gain through YouTube videos to fix it (no offense, honey – that really was an awesome resource idea, but the dryer you “fixed” now makes a really funny noise and I’m pretty sure that fire extinguisher has now found a permanent new home by its side. Just sayin’.). So, in the market we were.
We started out assuming that we would wind up with another coil range. Primitive by the standards of some, I understand, but much closer to our price range than them modern contraptions. Then, of course, came that massive sale (at the place with the free delivery and haul away, did I mention that?). So we wound up with a nice, black, smooth-top range with a ton of fancy-looking buttons up top. That has to make it worth every penny of that sale price, right? Fancy buttons? I mean, come on!
What pushed our decision over the edge to go smooth over same-priced coil (I’m telling you, big sale), was the promise from salesmen and mother-in-law alike that the smooth top was infinitely easier to clean. Easier and clean in the same sentence? Sold! Now I know better for next time: When being told by a salesman how easy something is to clean, you’d better stop and ask them what kind of car they drive and how clean it is. Because I’m thinking it’s directly related.
I spend more time polishing, buffing and wiping down that stove top than I do tending to my children some days. I’m serious – this thing requires more attention and maintenance than both of our fish aquariums and our cat combined. It’s ridiculous.
Ok, maybe it’s just because the guy who delivered it scared me within an inch of my retail life by telling me that the slightest movement of any pan would scratch the surface – and a scratched burner is “completely ruined and useless” (not so, says the manual, by the way). Or maybe it’s because within 5 days of having the stove, I committed said offense and left a half-inch skid mark because I mindlessly slid a pan away from the edge. Who knows. All I know is that I’m completely paranoid about this stove top. I cover it with silicone cookie mats when it’s not in use in case it is mistaken for a countertop, and I’m currently looking for a covered fry pan with a non-offending bottom surface to replace the old one which is now indefinitely in time-out. I clean it each time it’s used, and practice my “wax-on, wax-off” moves at least every other day (Karate Kid, here I come!). It’s wearing on me.
You know, it’s nice to have something new, with all kinds of fancy buttons to push, but I’m starting to understand that people who drive Lamborghinis are probably ridden with all kinds of stress and anxiety issues that the rest of us who drive 20 year old Chevys will never know. Because who cares if a minivan gets scratched?
So maybe I should have settled for a more practical model – the Ford of coil ranges or something. I’m really second guessing the decision to go for the flashier build. But be it Ford or Lamborghini, let’s just hope that the stove I purchased at least likes Super Bowl parties.
And – for right now, anyway – I might appreciate it if it at least didn’t turn out to be a Toyota.
