Our oven has been on strike this past couple of weeks, spitting out only half-heartedly-cooked meals. It’s made me realize that ovens are like athletes: you need to give them time to warm up, and once they get past their prime, it’s time for retirement.

At first, I thought I hadn’t given my vintage warrior a sufficient pep talk or enough warm up time, causing my brownies to come out the consistency of  a mud bath.

So, rather than simply throw in the towel on our antique athlete who has given us years of winning meals, I went out and purchased an oven thermometer.  That night, I set the oven to 400° to cook clam strips. I waited ten minutes.  Alas, a cool 0° on the thermometer confirmed the sad news that my antique athlete had gone to the goal posts in the sky.

As I contemplated how to healthily cook clam strips, sans oven or air fryer, I commented to my husband, “Well, our oven is officially dead. We’re going to have to look for a new one.“

He responded, “Do we have anything planned for Saturday?”

Me: “Not that I know of, why?”

Him: “Because I’m making an appointment to give blood.”

Wondering what giving blood had to do with my culinary conundrum, I replied “I thought you were asking so we could go look for a new stove.”

Him: “Memorial Day Sales are coming up.”

“It’s March 8th. Memorial Day isn’t until May 31st.”

“Well, we don’t use the oven that much, do we?”

I was almost able to bite back the retort, “Well, one-half of ‘we’ never uses it.”

On Saturday, the situation was still status quo when I asked him what he might want me to pick up at the grocery store.

“Do they have cinnamon buns?”

I responded, “They do. In a pop-open container by Pillsbury. Unfortunately, I can’t make them, because this half of ‘we’ needs an oven to do so.”

I can’t help but think that if that darned oven had a starter cord, we’d have been the proud owners of a new one that very night.

P.S. Beware of annoying writers. You may find yourself the subject of a humor column.