My oven is a nasty piece of work. It has a black heart of malevolence towards anything inserted into its bowels. It burns and destroys with wanton fervour. It is a source of marital consternations, yes the plural is intentional.
I inherited the oven when I entered into holy matrimony with Hubster. Included in the inheritance was a hodge podge assortment of pans and cutlery, an ageing washing machine, an archaic desk, a slab of wood for a bed, numerous metal cupboards that groan in abject agony whenever you open them, and two dusty rickety wicker chairs from the Raj.
Perhaps the chairs are not quite that old but the other items, many of which were hand me downs from other couples, are much past their prime and due a late retirement. Hubster loves resurrecting them and getting them back into the work force. Betsy One died numerous times till her final passing in which the mechanic looked Hubster in the face and said the cost was too great to revive her. He commanded my husband to buy a new one in very Un-Indian Tones.
I love Betsy Two passionately, what can I say she cleans my clothes. How ever the Stove is not a friend. With the fluctuating electricity and one side Works and one side Does Not Work my cakes come out in mangled masses. I cannot cook casseroles. Ever. The oven fits snugly a 9 by 13 pan. It is diminutive in size and yet causes a world of frustration.
So with all that said I have decided to name above oven. Sanctification by Burning came to mind but along side the sweet Betsy that seems a little over the top. Perhaps Crazy Hot Oven Box or Chob for short? I will think on it and get back to you in awhile. Till then I need to rotate my oatmeal cake so that both sides cook.
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