The Tan Clunker

Have you seen my stove? Of course you haven't. Well, this tan clunker, circa 1979, was in the house when we bought it. The oven door creaks open and shut. I thought we would purchase a new unit shortly after the oven light burned out--that was about three years ago, maybe four. The knobs are basic and functional, but none of the timers or clocks work. One of the stove burners takes approximately 20 minutes to reach high heat. The oven gets appropriately hot, though, and enough stove burners work so that we just keep on using the old beast out of a sense of frugality. Besides, I'm not a good cook. I don't think a new oven and stovetop will change that.

In fact, I'm so unsure of myself in the kitchen that cooking has become a source of extreme anxiety and insecurity for me. I tremble at the thought of preparing and serving a meal to guests.

The past few weeks we have been hosting my husband's sister and her son, and his mother, who live in France and Belgium respectively. I had been doing okay with meals up to that point, serving simple foods and accepting help whenever it was offered. Then one day his sister told me that a friend of hers would be driving down to spend the day at our house. She added that this friend is a professional chef.

"What?" I asked, applying a tone similar to my preschooler's philosity, "I can tell you right now I am not going to make a meal for a professional chef. I just can't. I'd be too nervous. We'll just have to bring home some Wendy's or something."

"Oh, don't worry," my sister-in-law reassured me. "We'll go shopping and ask her to cook for us!" She thought I would be delighted with this proposition, but I thought of the Tan Clunker. My heart was racing--could we order a new stove and have it delivered in a day? At the very least, I had to buy new drip pans. My existing ones were coated with gunky overflow from spaghetti dinners and morning eggs. A professional chef using the Tan Clunker? Then I thought of all the other neglected household chores and yardwork I put off, thinking I was only hosting family. Suddenly I felt pressure to weed under the trees by the back porch, mow the lawn, and accomplish several other other spring jobs I'd been postponing.

We gave up on ordering a new stove, and I didn't have time to clean the splattered, blackened oven, but I did buy new drip pans. Outside we weeded and mulched the areas most visible to us when sitting at the tables in the shade.

Then the chef arrived.

She turned out to be a wonderful, relaxed woman who sat and talked about her transition to America from Belgium, her search for a church that fit their family, and her growing business as a personal chef. After a lunch that my mother-in-law threw together, the chef and my sister-in-law shopped for dinner. Once back home and at my request, she attempted to teach me some techniques, but she was stuck using one of my inadequate knives, a sorry skillet and an unattractive, utilitarian baking dish. Oh, did I mention that her parents own a high-end, high-class restaurant in Brussels frequented by international diplomats, politicians and nobility? Yes, it's true. And she was cooking in my kitchen and serving the meal in my dining room. She didn't seem to be bothered much at all, but I was.

An expert at entertaining, she explained that the potatoes go on the left, the vegetables on the right, and the meat directly in front of you at the bottom of the plate. When setting the table (all on my own), I had placed the water goblet where the wine glass should be and at the start of the meal, she poured accordingly. Oops. Wine in a water goblet isn't too big of a deal. And anyway, I had clearly established that I didn't have a lot of experience with fine dining. Heavens, the nicest place we eat at these days is Old Country Buffet, where you pick up your plate and silverware as you go, paying little attention as to whether you flopped your blob of mashed potatoes on the left or right of the slab of roast beef. The green beans hide under the macaroni and cheese, and no one pours wine or fills water goblets while we go back for two or three desserts. Oh, I exaggerate. We eat out at nicer places than that, like Bob Evans and Cracker Barrel. But I digress.

Oh, did I mention that her spouse works for a major appliance manufacturer? I'll withhold the name for their privacy, but she has the highest end stove/oven, dishwasher and fridge, and all the gadgets a chef could dream of--usually far more than she dreams of or needs. While working on the main dish, she was using the stove. "Next time (that is, when I get a new stove someday), gas," she advised. "You must cook with gas." As she set the temperature on the oven and opened the creaking door, she peered inside and said, "Oh, I am so spoiled."

She didn't mean it as a criticism at all, but as I watched her close it quickly and listened to the hinges creak, I thought, Oh, I am so humiliated.