The Oven Is Fixed

Thanksgiving’s coming.  The oven’s broken.  Oven-equipped dwellings tend to be in short supply here in the Middle Kingdom.  I never had one in Hong Kong either.  But in our present compound, everyone is roast-enabled.  The last time a guy came and “fixed” the dishwasher and the oven by pressing a few buttons.  Not long after they conked out, one by one. 

This time, the dishwasher guy insisted that ovens were not his area of expertise.  We called the oven guy.  He came while I was on the phone.  My wife explained, after he left, that either the panel had to be fixed, or we needed an entirely new oven.  Our man would begin a discovery project and loop back before too long.  This with about eight days remaining till Thanksgiving was all rather disheartening.

The lights where the clock is supposed to be just blink and blink.  I’ve pressed every combination of buttons far too many times already.  For sanity purposes, I have firmly given up on pressing any more knobs.  But then, my landlord’s old Ayi visits.  I’m on a call.  Explain to her briefly the myriad things to look over and dash back to a call.  By the time I’m off, the oven is fixed. 

“How did you do it?”  “Just press these two buttons at the same time.”  I hadn’t thought of that.  “Come on.”  “Really?”  “You have to press these two together, like this.”  The blinking lights stop and all proceeds as normal with the console.  “Um.  Thank you.” She rifles through the other to-do’s matter-of-factly, with calm confidence and I thank her profusely as she leaves out into the mid-morning slush.

I’ve got a casserole in there tonight.   Roasting’s resumed.