Most years, My Lovely Wife delivers her annual holiday shopping edict soon after Thanksgiving. The directive includes, among other things, an inventory of gifts she’s already purchased along with a roster of grandnieces and nephews (ages noted) listing whatever it had been we gave them the year before. It’s on this occasion that she usually tells me what to buy for her (I get to choose the wrapping) while trying her best to pry some gift request from me.
So I was pleasantly surprised earlier this month to learn this year’s campaign would focus mainly on our offspring and their partners — and, of course, our grandson. I needn’t be worried about picking up MLW’s present from the designated neighborhood retailer, nor would I must come up with something I really needed. We’d still do a little shopping, but I anticipated a quiet season ahead.
MLW’s decision made sense for several reasons, not the least which involved the aging of grandnephews and nieces. What do you buy for a college sophomore you haven’t seen since he was in grade school? There’s also the matter of the kitchen remodel.
We’ve spent a lot of the past six months in the throes of the items we assumed would be a modest kitchen upgrade. (I know, you’re laughing with us, away from us.) A vital portion of this project involved surrounding our stove having a custom-made cupboard-and-countertop assemblage. This was rather more complicated than we’d imagined, because of the peculiar dimensions of our 9-year-old range. Because it features an aesthetically pleasing rounded console that juts out several millimeters beyond the rest of the stove, we needed to permit enough space to let us scoot it back to place once the new countertop to the left — and new tile on the wall to its right — were installed.
MLW measured and remeasured and measured again before ordering the countertop, which must be an inch or so narrower at its rear than at its front to support the console. It fit perfectly, leaving what we calculated to be precisely the quantity of space necessary to accommodate both range and the new tile. When the tiler finished his work right before Thanksgiving, however, we all eyed the space a bit less confidently. “Don’t try moving the stove back before the tile has set,” he warned. “Let it sit overnight at least.”
Much against her nature, MLW suggested which i might have to smash in the right side from the console with a hammer to produce the necessary leeway. This antidote somehow offended my aesthetic sensibilities. Besides, the metal console seemed fairly immune to such modifications. She began searching on the internet for a new stove.
“Merry Christmas,” I said.
I am not really a patient man when faced with home-improvement uncertainties, but I left the stove sitting askew around the kitchen floor when I retired that evening, my mind wandering among various heroic scenarios. I rose prior to MLW and, maneuvering the appliance toward its former position, confirmed our worst suspicions. We'd calculated the width from the tile but not the adhesive that bound it towards the wall. There was plenty of room from the back wall, but not enough in front of the niche. There was no method to slide it into place.
When MLW strolled into the kitchen later that morning, I had been brewing my tea and also the stove looked like it had never left its home. “It fit perfectly,” I announced. “I simply removed the console, slid the stove into place, and reattached the console.”
This was bending the reality just slightly. I had indeed forced the offending console from its moorings at the top of the range, but in doing this I had failed to detach a single stubborn screw from the bottom left corner of the appendage. I had simply bent it over far enough to slide the range back into the niche, then — with some effort — secured it back into place.
She surveyed the situation with what seemed to me to be some level of satisfaction until her eyes fell on a small gap between the countertop and the edge of a narrow shelf connected to the wall behind the stove. We had requested that the carpenter extend the advantage of the shelf downward to meet the countertop, thus blocking items from falling behind the number. I had noticed earlier that it descended about 3 inches lacking the mark, but figured it had been no big deal. We were so close to the finish line, I was prepared to put up with some imperfections.
This isn't how MLW rolls. She known as the contractor, and three weeks later the carpenter got into finish the job. To do so, obviously, he would have to pull the stove out of its happy nesting place, which meant he would have to carefully remove the console and change it once the range was back again. This was a bit worrisome; I wouldn’t be at home to supervise.
I returned from the office that evening to find the stove back in its niche and the gap through the countertop artfully filled. Looking more closely, however, I noticed that the console wasn’t positioned quite properly; that stubborn screw had limited its mobility. I removed the console, roughed up enough to dislodge the screw, and slapped it back where it belonged.
This would’ve been a contented conclusion to a fraught situation had my maneuverings not severed some mysterious link between the console and its digital brain. I punched the button to fireplace up the oven — nothing. Kitchen timer — nothing.
Thankfully, MLW wasn't at home at the time, so I perform up an appropriate level of contrition when announcing the bad news. True to form, however, she simply leapt into action. The next day, she picked up a toaster oven at Target (“Merry Christmas”) and also the following weekend, we headed to some local appliance dealer and acquired each other a brand new stove. No wrapping required.