HOW TO SAY GOODBYE TO A CHERISHED HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCE. BY SANDRA HARRIS.

SAYING GOODBYE TO A CHERISHED HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCE.

BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Well, well. A minute’s silence, if you would be so kind, for my gas cooker of twenty-three years standing. I’d had it longer than I’ve had my son, is one way of putting it. That’s right, the Appliance formerly known as ‘Cookie’ has finally given up the ghost and gone up to that big old scrapyard in the sky where old appliances go to die.

 After years of me coaxing, cajoling, threatening and bribing him (we treat our appliances as part of the family and anthropomorphise them to the extent of imbuing them with genders) to keep going despite his encroaching old age, it’s all over. We’ve had a new cooker installed and made ready to use, by three gas fitters who were just about the surliest tradesmen I’ve ever dealt with.

They were arguing amongst themselves even as their van was pulling into our yard, and they kept up the low-key grumbling and bitching the whole time they were in my kitchen, working away. It was actually quite funny, especially when it turned out that the only thing they actually agree on is that some guy they all know called Gary is a total asshole.

 Lol. That Gary. He grinds my gears. Can’t you just picture him now, eating the baked goods his mum packs for his lunch without sharing them around? The big meanie. Says very little, but watches everything going on around him with an eagle eye.

He’ll be the snitch who lets the boss know that you were an hour late back from lunch yesterday because you have a bit of stuff stashed away on the North Circular Road who needs regular servicing.

He’s the one who eyeballs you if you so much as slip a paperclip belonging to work into your pocket, or try to get away with ‘borrowing’ the works van for the weekend without asking because your auntie needs you to help her move house, and all her standing lamps and parrot cages won’t fit in the back of your Toyota. That Gary, grrr. A total asshole. No wonder no-one likes him…

Anyway, I said goodbye to Cookie before the men got here, thanked him for twenty-three years of (mostly) faithful service and released him onto the next stage of his cosmic journey, as all the wellness books and videos tell you to do.

Marie Kondo, the tidiness expert, advises a similar procedure. Thank you for your service, shoes that have been at the back of the wardrobe since 1989, I now release us both from our contract. It’s meant to be good for helping you to let go of the excess baggage that’s literally slowing down or even blocking your progress through life.

My beloved Cookie wasn’t excess baggage, of course. He was a very necessary part of our household and lives for nearly two and a half decades. So many Christmas, Easter, birthday and other celebration dinners were cooked on him, so many memories. One of my favourite recollections is of one fateful Paddy’s Day about five years ago…

At about three o’clock in the afternoon, by which time we’re well stuck into THE WAR OF THE BUTTONS on television, I go to take the big chicken for the dinner out of the fridge, only to discover it isn’t in the fridge part of the fridge but in the freezer, and it’s rock hard, harder than Nurse Ratched’s heart and Vladimir Putin’s neck put together.

(To have a ‘hard neck’ in Ireland means roughly the same as having balls, but not good balls. For example, you might say, ‘by Jaysis, but that Putin fella has some fuckin’ balls on him, invading Ukraine like that, without so much a by-your-leave.’ To use it in a complimentary way, you might say something like, ‘ah, that other fella has some fuckin’ balls all the same, standing up to that fuckin’ bollix Putin.’ See? Good balls, bad balls. It's a uniquely Irish thing. Capische?)

So, it had to be defrosted before I could put it anywhere near the oven. It took seven or eight hours to defrost, then another two to cook. We sat down to Paddy’s Day dinner shortly after midnight that night, watching another great Irish staple, IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER starring Daniel Day-Lewis, on television while we ate. Looking back, it’s actually quite a funny story. But on the day, when we’re as hungry as the Donner Party and no sign of any grub in the offing, not so much…

Anyway, that’s the story of my old cooker, and now it’s onwards and upwards with the new one, which we’ve already christened by cooking chicken boobs with sage and onion stuffing in it. I’m sure that in a few weeks we’ll probably be the best of pals.

You’ll see, it’ll be acting up like a diva at the Paris Opera House and refusing to brown the chicken nuggets and I’ll be down on my knees in front of it, promising it the world if it’ll only play ball. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose…