At Home: Recipe for Disaster
Did someone place a hex upon my kitchen? Is it because I don't cook?
By Loraine Page
COLUMNIST
All was going well in my kitchen.
It's not a statement I ever thought I'd make. I mean, unless your kitchen is on fire from a cooking mishap, then all is probably going well.
But one day, a "bad spell," or something, descended upon my culinary kingdom, the place where I avoid cooking but do my best writing and stealthy observance of my cat's reactions to the foods I put in her bowl.
The large appliances in my kitchen died, all within weeks of each other. As a finale, the negative energy made a pipe under my sink leak, and while I was mopping up the wetness, an army of ants emerged from a crack in the windowsill and walked over my arms.
Well done, mysterious hex.
I couldn't cope, so I emailed my landlord with the subject heading "I can't take it anymore!"
With all the dead appliances, my life had turned into something out of an episode of Stranger Things, which I've never even watched.
Why my kitchen? Why my kitchen? Was this directed at me — or the kitchen itself? It's true that I don't cook any meals there, or anywhere, but I use my appliances. In fact, except for the stacked washer/dryer, I love my appliances.
My dishwasher was totally great. So was the stove, and the refrigerator too. All great. The washer/dryer? Perhaps not so much. But I didn't want it to die.
Besides, I loved being in my kitchen. From my desk tucked into a corner, I could view the kettle when it began to boil for my tea break. And the picture window, which someone had installed before my time in the apartment, afforded me beautiful views of neighbors' rooftops.
But now, except for my iMac, I've lost everything I cared about in one fell swoop. No warning bells at all. Except for the dishwasher, which screeched like a banshee (metal on metal) every time I turned it on lately.
My landlord responded quickly to my email. "I'm sorry," he wrote. "I'll send help."
In the days that followed, disorder reigned in the household. Legions of repairmen, who arrived two at a time, hauled large non-working appliances out and new, working ones in.
As they worked, I followed them around reciting everything that had been going on. I thought they'd be interested because they were now involved. I told them I believed the appliances had agreed on a type of suicide pact, in which they would all give out at approximately the same time.
Was that a correct assumption? I asked.
They didn't know.
Or, if they did, they weren't saying.
The plumber was the last worker to arrive. He came alone. The entire network of pipes under the sink needed to be replaced, so I left him alone with that. But when he was done, I decided to give him "the tour" of devastation. I showed him this was where this was now, and that was where the other used to be, and this is here now, but over there is an empty space that I want to keep for other things. Maybe some shelving.
He stayed quiet.
When he was leaving, I heard him call out to me from a spot halfway down the staircase. "There's nothing left that can go wrong with your kitchen," he reassured me. "But I'd look out for the other rooms, if I were you."
He got it. He really did.
It's because the only explanation for the mass appliance stoppage, not to mention the mysterious appearance of ants on my arms, had to be an invisible force. Possibly a Kitchen Witch, which I've heard exists, though I don't know what it is. But something like that, which is taking a revenge on people who have kitchens but don't cook.
The worst is over now. Actually, all of it is over, except for the occasional ant that shows up when it smells a store-bought cookie or pretzels, which surprises me because I didn't think they liked salt.
I still ponder possible causes of the demonic possession of my kitchen. Astrology comes to mind, particularly that whole thing with planets that appear to be traveling backward. That causes problems.
On my saner days, I remember the second law of thermodynamics, which, simply put, points to the fact that everything heads toward decay.
Also, I once carried around a novel I never read, called Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. That's also a possibility — that things fall apart.
I'm going to give that some serious thought. It doesn't explain why all my appliances fell apart around the same time. But sure, I'll keep it in mind. I guess stranger things have happened.
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