The Stove

My mother was never a good cook. She was what I called an "Irish cook". She boiled everything to death (including, can you just taste them, frozen vegetables boiled for over an hour). She had two specialties...Easter and Thanksgiving. The rest of the year you were on your own.

Two of my friends still suffer post traumatic stress disorder from a Chinese food leftover meal. There was  a major problem with her cooking, that as bad as it was, there was a trap door. And I didn't realize it until I started taking care of her.

Tee thought and still thinks..."what are you talking about? Mom's a great cook"; and he eats everything.

When Mom was still on her own, she made herself coffee and cooked food for Tee.
When we began to live together (with my roommate, Dee), the responsibility of cooking fell to the two people who were not my mother. But she always wanted to help..."can I peel the potatoes, set the table", etc.?
The more time passed, the less ability she had in that part of the house..

The main problem with a stove is that you don't know how dangerous it is until that really dangerous thing has happened. She was still making herself coffee in the morning when she forgot about the kettle and then set fire to a dishtowel.  We awoke to smoke alarms going off in all the rooms (they need to be connected to each, electrically, by the way), a thick cloud of smoke on the first floor and my Mom walking around scared and confused. She did not have any idea what to do. Fortunately, except for some melted stove knobs and a some drips of melted plastic on the floor, she was not injured and everything else was as okay as it ever was going to be.
It was the first time ( of many) that I thought she would have to go into a nursing home.
We removed the knobs off the stove and hid them in the mud room. And she never went near the stove again.

And on a personal note, I avoid it myself, as my roommate is a much better cook than I am. But I  "order in" like a champ.