It all started on a Thursday. I knew it would take the greater part of Friday to mix the dough and wait for multiple proofing periods before baking the bread in preparation for Sabbath lunch, so I decided Thursday was the day I’d finally clean the oven. 

The Kenmore gas range/oven had become my emblem of procrastination, hearkening back to move-in day when I neglected to pull out the oven to perform a pre-moving deep cleaning (I am ashamed; Mom, you taught me better). I had  never used a gas range/oven before, so I really wasn’t sure if it was normal to have a black residue on the interior of the gas oven (spoiler: it’s not). It was baking just fine, and the carbon monoxide detector wasn’t squawking, so neither was I. 

In my current unemployment and grand waiting period, I’m finding all sorts of things to do to distract myself from existential angst. Organizing closets, purging freezers, plotting deck repairs… the oven was up next. I changed into sweatpants and short sleeves, knowing my elbows were about to be greased. 

It started simply enough. A scrub brush, water, soap, and vinegar helped me realize that the oven door did, in fact, have a window, and that it is actually transparent! This was enough excitement to move on to the interior walls and ceiling. Before delving into the interior, however, a niggling voice encouraged disconnecting the oven from power and fuel. This is where things got involved. 

I’d installed spice racks on the wall beside the oven, which created quite the sliding puzzle for wiggling the range out of its corner cubby. The best handholds were recesses in the ceiling of the oven, leaving my fingers and palms sooty. I scooted to the sink to wash up, but made it only a step before the cavity I’d just opened cried out in anguish, its gaping maw twisted and mangled. 

I gasped. I gagged. I cried out in agony. 

Procrastination to move the stove had also struck the previous owners, evidenced by the oven-shaped outline on the walls – a previous paint color choice shrouded in curtains of clinging cobwebs. The gas lines twisted grotesquely, the coils draped with clinging fibers like Spanish moss in a haunted wood. A colony of dust bunnies thrived in the newly opened den, nestled among treasures considered delicacies by the floor space of a ravenous kitchen appliance: pencils, buttons, marker caps, a Barbie shoe, two nickels, three pennies, one marble, a calendar, and an old alarm clock. 

Through gags and shudders, I acquired enough spider silk to weave a cat-sized kimono and eventually found the tile floor. 

After the ensuing three-hour battle, I straightened my aching limbs to stand victorious. The dust bunnies were evicted, splatters were sponged, and the appliance was wiped and rinsed and scrubbed and dried to soot-freedom. It was time to test the range.

Hollywood has me convinced that anything with heat and gas will inevitably create an explosion – the power intensity sufficient to level a block or just turn your face black depends on the movie genre – so I was all nerves as I turned on each burner, relieved when I saw it light as expected. The oven didn’t light. I paused my escapades, deciding a night of rest was better than continuing to worry about gas explosions.

---

24 hours later, I had two beautiful loaves of bread sitting on my counter. The shape, weight, and crumb was essentially perfect. It only cost 5 hours, the agony of a dust bunny eviction, soot to my elbows, facing my procrastination …and $12 at the local bakery.

All of that for a loaf of bread. 

---

P.S. With some YouTube and Reddit research, a $29 replacement part for the oven, a few phone calls with the local appliance repairman, and some gumption: the oven functions better than it ever has, my hands don’t get sooty when I bake a casserole, and my shoulder hurts from all the backpats I’ve given myself. I guess existential angst is a pretty good motivator.