Old is gold


‘Please, not that!’ I groaned as the stench of balsamic assaulted me. ‘Someone, please teach this idiot that balsamic is used in dressing and not basting. Ugh!’

A cook she is not!

After she finished, I was almost as dead as the food inside me. Had I had any entrails, I would have thrown them up in a gag reflex. But, we microwaves have only cavities and no stomachs. As usual, she did not bother to clean me out that night.  I hardly slept, marinating as I was in the putrid odours of burnt sauce and meat.


‘Who’s that?’

He looked like a younger (ahem…much younger!) cousin of mine. He was all chrome and had a shiny, sly glint to his façade. She sat him beside me on the kitchen counter and jumped up and down, clapping her hands in glee.

‘Act your age woman!’ I wanted to beep in disgust. She was behaving like an immature, overexcited kid with a new toy. But, why would she keep her toy in the kitchen? I tell you, she is weird. Sometimes she licks her fingers and dances in the kitchen.

‘Psst…who are you?’ I mumbled that night, trying to dislodge food from my cavity. Sleep was a dream again, suffocating as I was in a deluge of vanilla. She failed at baking today!

‘Dude, I’m an oven,’ he replied in a hoity-toity, bored voice, ‘the latest model.’

‘Hah, only an oven!’ I beeped in relief and felt some of his haughtiness seep into my metallic bones. I was an oven, toaster, food warmer and grill; clearly, more important.

But, wait!

If I could perform more functions than he could, why did she need this inferior piece? Gosh, was she discarding me? After all the torture that I bore over the years… imagine! Why the ungrateful B****! I beeped in fury.

‘Shush…’ The oven protested loudly.

The gall of the brat asking me to shush! Such a snob he was! I tell you, the new generation has no respect for us old…erm, mature ones.

But, I quietened my incensed beeps. I had much to think about. Replacement by a younger model meant that she would hand me over to one of those filthy, swarthy and mean-looking men who came sometimes to take her electronics. God knows what they did with innocents like me. Probably, tore our virginal (single-ownership) bodies and had their way with us. Oh God, how abhorrent!

The next few nights I could not sleep and not on account of her experimentation.



The smoke alarm sang. Frantically, she fanned a dishrag at the oven’s gaping mouth spewing sooty smoke.

‘How the mighty fall!’ I chuckled, content in the knowledge that I was now semi-retired and used only to heat food (thankfully, mostly take away). Saved!

She couldn’t discard me now could she? After all, I was a gift from her mummy. Old is gold, isn’t it? The rest – well, that’s the oven’s story now.


Image credit – unsplash.com

About Sonal Singh

I believe that life is a repertoire of anecdotes. The various situations that we encounter, the many incidents of every day, the people we meet, our conversations with them; all make life a melange of tales. And, that is what I attempt to capture through my writing. My cooking is no different! It reflects my love for travel and my love for innovation. The kitchen is my happy place. So, even though by vocation I am a recruiter (www.rianplacements.com), by passion I am a writer, home chef and a hodophile.

Check Also

Massacred Innocence

Lama understood the youngster’s angst.  ‘Sepoy,’ he reasoned, ‘God knows that it’s not who fired the shot but who paid for the bullet that is to be blamed. This isn’t your burden. It’s the Brigadier General’s. Open fire!’ Lama’s words found their mark.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *