In Which I am Smote Down by the Appliance Gods and Owen Officially Becomes a Teenager

I will make this brief.

I got home last night furious at one of my children. I was so mad that I could barely admire my new stove. Eventually I calmed down, admired it, and decided to cook dinner. I was rather tired as my body was thoroughly confused at being upright all day, but figured I had to play with my new stove. A Jaques Pepin recipe for chicken thighs was found. I finished the chicken thighs and put them in my warming drawer (!) and poured off the fat in the saucepan, getting ready to make a pan sauce. All of a sudden there was a loud pop and a hot smell. The board at the top of the stove went black. We couldn't turn the oven off (where I was roasting potatoes) because you do that via the board. There was much shrieking (by me) and impressive cursing (by my husband). The boys came downstairs and added to the overall shaking fists at the Appliance Gods.

I kid you not.

My fucking new (expensive) stove didn't make it through one meal. A good hour or two of ranting, raving, and weeping by various family members followed.

I put the rest of the food in the refrigerator because I wasn't microwaving a god damned pan sauce. Then I drank wine even though it made me a little nauseous. Desperate times people, desperate times.

Owen's 13th birthday picture---the middle one is blurry but I like it anyway.