My oven is broken.
Like, sincerely broken. Not in that “the dog ate my homework”, excuse-y kind of way. I’m not blaming the oven for almost setting my cookies on fire yesterday, even though it was programmed to bake at 350 degrees. Except, that’s exactly what I’m doing — because, instead of heating up to a sensible cookie-baking temp, it heated up to approximately five billion degrees. Parchment paper turned to ash. Macadamia nuts and dark chocolate morphed together into hardened lumps of expensive coal. This all happened within three minutes.
I went to turn the oven off, and it said “This function is not in use”… Uh… Okay. So, I’ll just live like this now. I’ll get used to existing in a home with burnt cookies and a blazing oven inferno — spouting hell fire and destroying dreams. For a moment I imagined us dragging blankets into the kitchen and camping out in front of our new perma-hot stove heater for the rest of the winter. It’s the more expensive version of one of those garbage can fires you see in hobo movies. I tried to turn it off again. It shut down this time. Just for kicks I tried to turn it back on and it gave me an error message. To anyone who’s experienced this you will understand when I say my oven was giving me a glaring, steaming, cookie-charring middle finger.