Terriyaki-drizzled pork chops with roasted garlic
and chillies, golden-brown potatoes, still-crisp zucchini, red pepper
and carrot gleamed through a waft of steam. The meal looked as
scrumptious as the picture on the box touting easy cleanup and compact
storage of this two-in-one appliance.
Lifting the skillet off the already preheated griddle surface, I set
wedges of garlic bread to toast and brought the skillet to the table
where Brogan had already started on his Ceasar salad.
“Everything will remain nice and hot,” I cooed, caressing the curved,
black lid as I would a long-desired lover. And I would only have one pot
to wash, I smiled.
“Whatever gets dinner on the table,” Brogan replied. He enjoyed getting
me top of the line kitchen appliances as long as meals filled the plate
and dinner was ready at six thirty.
The skillet was a little harder to get clean than I’d anticipated. Not a
problem…an overnight soak would do the trick. The griddle got a careful
going over with a soapy cloth, no submersion for that baby.
Saturday morning saw sunny-side up eggs, bacon strips and hash browns
sizzling on the griddle. This time, it took a toothbrush to get rid of
the grease drippings. Mental note – start cooking healthier. I chuckled
as I scrubbed the counter where the griddle had sat. Who was I kidding –
I was living with the lord of meat and potatoes.
A few months later, I shuffled into the kitchen after a night that had
included a bottle of sangria, a six-pack of beer and a box of wine. I
had polished off the sangria. Brogan and his buddy had scarfed down a
couple cheeseburgers each and chugged the rest.
I glared at the skillet, burger goop hardened along it’s sides,
splattered over its dials, slicked onto the griddle. The ghost of
everything fried emanated from its clogged pores, thickened the air,
sent my already topsy-turvy stomach rolling.
Lord knows why it took me eleven years to get rid of the thing. It sat
on the top of a cupboard, white dust speckling its blackness like
dandruff on dull hair. I toted it with me after Brogan and I broke up,
long after my taste for red meat fizzled. It gathered seven more years
of dust. Last year, I sent it off to the donation bin.
Perhaps its next love affair will be a happier one.
(c) Kristy Kassie, 2016
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