The oven snapped. Sunday, after weeks of gingerbread, day and night, it went on a rampage, stomping past the 350-degree setting to stunning heights. Sometime after the final pan of ginger roofs turned black, the control panel collapsed, shrieking “F2!” Well, F you 2!
Apparently the minute before Christmas is not the time to install a new range. Dough balls in hand, I caught the toaster oven smirking. Why not?
Because baking a single box of 18 shortbread sandwich cookies, two-by-two, in the Easy Bake consumes an entire work Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday.
On Thursday, the doorbell rang and a guy armed with a pair of needle-nose pliers marched in. He muscled the oven away from the wall, pried off the housing, and yanked out something he called “the board,” sort of a burnt pizza with electronic toppings. He clipped in a fresh version and handed over a bill.
Surely a bargain—and a blessing.
