Dr. Mike Buys A New Cooker

I grew up in a 1920s style bungalow before living in such a house was chic. My parents moved into our Chicago home on Francisco Avenue in 1951 and did a minimal amount of redecorating at that time. Interestingly, most of that work actually destroyed some of the house’s natural charm. For instance, the living room fireplace and its two companion stained glass windows were removed to make that room more modern.

The kitchen had undergone the most basic of renovations then and remained the same until we moved to the suburbs almost 25 years later. The floor was redone in red and green tiles that were arranged in a checkerboard fashion, and one wall received “tile work” from its baseboard to its midpoint. The “tiles” were, in fact, a single sheet of linoleum that was molded into a yellow square tile pattern. An example of remodeling on a minimal budget.

My memories of the kitchen are from the 1960s, and at that point, the prior effort to update it just added to its hodgepodge appearance. By then the floor tiles were dull and broken, and the linoleum wall was aged and worn. Against that wall was a 1950s style chrome kitchen table with matching tube chairs. Its grey Formica top had the look of one from an old diner booth, with parts of the surface rubbed off after thousands of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Above the table was a small cheap wall lamp, which was secured by a single screw 2 feet above the faux tiles. The room was illuminated by a bare circular fluorescent ceiling light that gave the space a cold bluish tinge. Directly across from the table was a white freestanding cabinet, its surface enameled steel. On top of the cabinet was an old Sunbeam Mixmaster that my mother used every day to bake the family a variety of treats. To the right of the table was a farm style sink with a built in drainboard. It was mounted to the wall and supported by two cylindrical porcelain legs. The old vessel had a worn down finish. Across from the sink was our single door Coldspot fridge and our Crown gas range, both purchased when my parents moved into the home in 1951.

The Crown range was a point of displeasure for my mother, who was a skilled cook and baker. My father purchased it without her approval, and it was apparently the lines “base” model. It was a 36” wide appliance finished in basic white. Its enamel backsplash featured a small clock in its center that had long ago lost the ability to keep time. The front of the range was split in half, but instead of featuring two side-by-side ovens, it only had one. The other side was for pot storage.

The top four burners were lit by two pilot lights, perpetually burning gas during a time when natural resources were cheap and endless. Its surface scratched by a past run-in with a steel wool pad.

Lighting the oven was not for the faint of heart as the operator had to turn on the gas, light a match, and insert the match into a little hole on the oven’s floor. Being late for even a second would cause a giant whoosh of flames and heat.

The over-temperature was always off by 25 degrees on the Crown, and we all knew to make the correct adjustment. Being the base model, its walls were not adequately insulated causing it to bake unevenly, which was my mother’s chief complaint, the other being the oven’s small size.

The stove had significant imperfections, but it worked. It was the heart of our kitchen, and the kitchen was the heart of our home. There was always a supply of fresh percolator coffee on the stovetop and some sort of freshly baked treat from the oven. Family, relatives, and friends gathered in the kitchen to sit on the old chrome chairs and sip, eat, and talk.

I bought my Naperville home in 1989, and I was fortunate that the prior owner left a stove and fridge. There was nothing wrong with these appliances, but I wanted something more modern, and after a few years I moved them to the basement to be replaced with expensive stainless steel ones.

The cheap appliances from my parents home never failed and never needed repair. Such was not the case of my shiny new appliances. The fridge received many service calls, and the gas stove’s burners lost their ability to be adjusted. After about 8 years both had to be replaced, which prompted a trip to the appliance department at Sears.

I had been playing around with a tabletop induction burner, and I was dazzled by its utility. I knew that I wanted that technology in my new stove. The salesman at Sears pointed me in the right direction, and after an hour of exploration I pulled out my charge card and made my purchases. A Samsung fridge with French doors and a Kenmore Elite range that had both an induction cooktop and a convection oven.

The Samsung fridge turned out to be a nightmare, it was so over-engineered that it constantly broke down. I replaced it with a similar model from Whirlpool last year. The ranged faired better and sealed my love for induction cooking. However, its oven was less reliable, and the unit had a catastrophic failure last month. The stove cost over $2500 when I purchased it 9 years earlier, and now it was heading for a landfill.

My shopping habits have changed in the last decade and with Julie’s OK I bought the new stove online from Costco, based only on pictures and reviews. Being so cavalier with such a significant purchase would have been unimaginable in the past.

On Monday a delivery man took away the Kenmore and installed our new GE stove. It is similar to the Kenmore, but it has few features added, and a few others were taken away. Its backsplash is filled with computerized controls; I now look at such functions as future repairs rather than modern marvels.

My kitchen’s appearance is very different from the one that I grew up in. Modern and efficient, it has every cooking convenience that a chief could want. Instead of a percolator, we have both a Bunn drip pot and a Keurig single serve unit. Instead of a Formica and chrome table, we have one made of real wood. Granite countertops and cherry wood cabinets sit in for my parents’ old enamel one. A deep under-the-counter stainless steel sink takes the place of my parent’s worn farmhouse unit. The recessed lights in the ceiling number 12, and give off a warm and welcoming glow. The floor consists of oak planks instead of worn and broken asbestos tiles. A fancy light fixture from Pottery Barn defines the dining space in place of the dimestore wall lamp that my parents used.

My kitchen is different from the one that I grew up with, but it also very similar. Despite 60 years of separation it still has to serve the same function as the one that my mother cooked in. It also serves the same social functions that my parent’s kitchen did. It is a gathering place for my family, relatives, and friends. There we eat, we talk, we plan, we play games, we entertain. I could comfortably live without our living room, but I would be lost without our kitchen.

Shiny and modern, my kitchen should be advanced in every way from my childhood one, but it is not. Although my parents had imperfect appliances, they worked for decades. Their oven may have been off by 25 degrees, but it never faltered beyond that value. The freezer compartment in their fridge may have been small and frosty, but we never worried that our ice cream would be melted.

My complex new appliances promise fancy advances, most of which I will never use. The new stove is more computer than a cooker. I had to read the manual twice just to understand how to set its digital clock. Yes, my fridge and stove are more energy efficient, but what does that really mean to me and to the environment when I have to replace a costly unit every 7 to 10 years. Planned obsolescence is good for manufacturing companies but bad for everyone else.

I live in 2019, not in 1950 and I have to accept the reality of early appliance demise. However, I can also celebrate advances that range from practical convection cooking to silly wifi connectivity. Our new stove has both, and to initiate it to our kitchen my daughter, and I baked 6 loaves of 100% whole wheat bread. We were both pleased with how the new oven worked. However, you may want to check back with me 7 or 8 years from now as it is likely that I will once again be in the market for a new one. That is if it lasts that long.

Stop over sometime for a cup of coffee and some homemade bread with jam. The coffee pot is always on, and the conversation is always flowing. Some things never change.

A stove similar to the one that I grew up with.
My new stove is more computer than cooker.

Six warm loaves, right out of the oven.

Camping On New Year’s Eve In A Winter Storm-Crazy!

“Do you want to do it?” I thought for a minute and said, “Yeah, I think so. You only live once, right?”

My campervan was mostly complete, and I had already had taken it to Colorado and Missouri on separate trips, but those trips were during warmer weather.

Tom’s son wanted to go camping sometime in January, and Tom was inviting me along. This would be more of an experience than an actual trip, and we would be spending only one night in the cold. The destination, Devil’s Lake, Wisconsin. Tom has a fondness for Devil’s Lake, it is a beautiful park; its centerpiece being the lake which is surrounded by high bluffs.

After Christmas Tom told me that he decided to go up on New Year’s Eve. I had a concern about this date as I thought that many services could be closed, but it sounded exciting and fun. Besides, we had unseasonably mild weather, so how bad could it be?

The other concern was my homefront. I knew that Julie wouldn’t mind me going on a camping trip, but on this one, I would be away from her on holiday. With that said, I’m usually in bed by 11 PM on New Year’s Eve. I’m hardly a party animal. I asked for her thoughts she said she didn’t mind it if I went.

My friend Tom had to work the morning of the trip, and he suggested that I go up early to secure a campsite. Tom imagined a party like atmosphere with the campground filled to the brim with happy campers excited to bring in the new year, and he wanted to make sure that we had a spot. Only one of the park’s multiple campgrounds is open year round, and that one didn’t take reservations.

Traveling the 3 hours to Baraboo WI solo was not an option for me. In the summer of 2017, we traveled separately to the same campground. I got turned around and wound up at a different site at the opposite end of the park. T-mobile cellular service at Devil’s Lake was almost non-existent, and it was nearly impossible for me to reach Tom. He had arrived hours earlier with both his son and my son. Eventually, we connected which is when I found out that all of the campgrounds were full. Exhausted from a full day of work and a drive to Wisconsin, I loaded William into my car and drove 3 hours home. It was not a warm and fuzzy memory.

I still have some finishing touches to do on my campervan, but it is functional. However, I had removed most of its storage boxes, as we were in the process of building out a large container that would reside under the camper’s platform bed. I debated if I wanted to return the contents to the camper. After all, I was only going for a day. At the last minute, I tossed the bins into the van. “Better safe than sorry,” I thought.

We left together, me in my campervan and Tom and his son in his 4×4 Dodge Ram dually. It was around 35 F, and it was lightly raining. We started our drive north, and the rain got progressively worse. I kept looking at the outside temperature readings on my Promaster’s dash. Thirty-five degrees, then 34F, then 33F, then the dreaded 32F. Thirty-two degrees, the point where rain turns to sleet. Thirty-two degrees, when the wet pavement turns to black ice. Initially, the van seemed to handle the change in conditions, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

We turned off the Interstate and onto a county road. Google maps said we had about 26 miles to go until we reached the park. By that time the sleet had turned to snow, and it was coming down hard. We were on a 4 lane road (two lanes per direction) that was winding up a hill. I could see that Tom was having a bit of trouble as the back of his truck was wiggling. I could feel that my traction was also slipping. There was no option, so we moved on.

As we turned a curve, the traffic suddenly slowed down to a near stop. In the middle of the right lane was a sedan with its flashers on. I thought that the owner was having car trouble, but I wondered why he had foolishly stopped directly in the middle of the right lane. I drove a little further and saw another car in the right lane, its flashers blinking. Then another, and another. The higher I drove up the hill, the more cars I saw parked in the right lane. I could see Tom’s truck ahead. He was moving forward, but his Ram has 6 tires of traction. The sedan in front of me was lurching forward, sometimes sliding sideways, sometimes almost stalling. I could feel my traction failing, and I started to panic as I imagined having to spend the night in my van as it sat directly in the line of traffic. By some miracle, I made it up the hill, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

The road narrowed to a single lane, and the snow continued to fall. It became impossible to determine if I was in the correct lane. I made a conscious effort to stay in the tire tracks that Tom’s truck made, using his four rear tires as my personal snow plow. I was in the middle of nowhere, it was getting dark, my van was struggling, I was feeling sick to my stomach. My doctor’s training has made me good at handling crises, but I was still feeling the stress. I willed myself to move forward.

Tom pulled into the broad entrance to Devil’s Lake State Park, and I followed. The road past the entrance went down at a steep angle and instinct told me that I should stay put. I told Tom that I was not going down. He felt that his 4 wheel drive could do the job and said that he would make the loop drive to explore the park and then come back to pick me up. He gave me an alternative route to the campground, just in case. Time ticked on, and I thought about the possibility of staying put at the entrance for the night. That option would certainly be better than getting stuck in the middle of a road.

Tom returned and said that my van would not have made it down and back. We took the alternate route to the campground. We traveled another quarter mile and took a right turn on an unplowed road with a slight incline. I could see that Tom traction was struggling again and I could feel my van straining. The only way I was able to move forward was by running my engine at 30 miles per hour. This constant acceleration moved the van at a jerking 5 miles per hour. I prayed that I wouldn’t have to stop as I knew that I would not be able to move forward again.

Although we only traveled a few blocks on that road, it seemed like miles. I’m glad that Tom was so familiar with the park, as I would never have seen the entrance to the campground. He pulled in, and I followed. The campground was completely empty, and its roads were unplowed and deep in snow. I thought, “Find a spot close to the entrance,” but he continued to drive as if he was looking for the perfect campsite. He eventually stopped, and so did I. When I tried to move forward again it was clear that I was stuck. Stuck in the middle of the road in an empty campground, and it was definitely getting darker.

I signaled Tom, and he said that he would loop around the campground and come up on my rear. I wasn’t sure what his plan was, but I was grateful that I wasn’t alone. He got back into his pickup and drove out-of-sight. My mind moved into solution mode, and various ideas and contingency plans flooded me in multiple data stream. I wondered if I could rock myself back then forward. I tried to back up, and surprisingly I was able to do this. However, I could not move an inch forward, as the road ahead was on an incline.

I got out of the van and scanned my surroundings. Despite the heavy snow, I could see the boundaries of level places, which were intended for the camper’s cars. I made some quick calculations and came up with a crazy plan to back up my van several hundred yards in reverse and then turn into one of the almost invisible parking slots. If successful I could take that move into a three-point-turn and point my van in the opposite (and downward) direction towards the campground’s entrance. I felt that I had nothing to lose.

I could feel my tires slipping as I started the backup, but I continued. I made another mental calculation and decided that I should be close to a flat spot and quickly turned my wheel to the right as I wanted to keep my momentum. The van tracked into a parking spot, and I had a sigh of relief. After a 10 second pause to catch my anxious breath I shifted the gear selector into drive and gently pressed on the accelerator. The van moved forward!

I was now going downhill and towards the entrance to the park. Tom was nowhere in sight. I could finally see the entrance, and then I saw Tom. He had been delayed because he got stuck and almost slid into a tree.

We were committed to camp, and frankly, we had no other options. Tom pulled into a spot, and I asked him if he would park my van next to his truck. I was exhausted and didn’t need any more challenges.

Tom had brought a wheelbarrow of firewood in the bed of his pickup, and he set about the task of starting a fire with a Bernzomatic torch. While he was doing this, I spotted the sites power pole and wondered aloud if the juice was still on. “They use GFI outlets, why don’t you check,” Tom said. I walked over and lifted the heavy metal shroud that covered the outlets. A tiny green LED blinked back at me. Being a good Eastern European type I had brought enough food for at least two days, now we also had power. I was jubilant. I opened the back of the Promaster and started to search the storage boxes that I had tossed in as an afterthought. Yes, here was the 30 Amp power cord, and there was the 30 Amp extension cord. In another box, I found the $18 little black electric heater that I bought at Walmart months earlier. I called Tom’s son to be my gopher, and in about 5 minutes I had AC power in my camper. I plugged in the little heater and turned it on. The temperature was quickly dropping outside, and I wanted to capture every BTU that I could.

Tom was busy setting up a tripod stand to hold the cast iron Dutch oven that he brought. In it, he had chunks of steak, onions, carrots, potatoes, and cabbage. The fire was now blazing, and he was adjusting a chain that was supporting the Dutch oven. Lower into the flame for hotter, higher away from the flame for colder.

We had food, electricity, some heat, and a fire. I was content and my panic from earlier in the day had washed away. I was now in my 12-year-old boy mode and was feeling like a great explorer in an unknown wilderness. I asked Tom’s son if he wanted to go on an adventure walk with me. He did, our main discovery was that the pit toilets were unlocked! Now we could definitely weather the storm. I had a down coat from Cabela’s, my rubberized Bog boots, and a new pair of fancy Gordini gloves that Julie had given me for Christmas. On my head sat a red stocking cap. Over the hat was my jacket’s hood. The fire plus my outfit kept me surprisingly warm.

The three of us stood, then sat around the fire talking. Despite being an introvert, I have no problem talking to Tom for hours. With that said, I can’t honestly remember much of what we were talking about. That’s the way it sometimes goes with best friends, the contact is more important than the context. At one point Tom decided that he was going to pick up a bottle of wine to help me relax after my harrowing drive. Although I initially protested his plan, I eventually gave in. I am not much of a drinker, and Tom doesn’t drink at all, but he got into his dually and drove to a local gas station that had liquor service. I had seen a plow go down the street in front of the campground and I was anxious to get a road report. If anyone could navigate in the snow, Tom could with his 6 wheels of traction.

Tom return, and I opened the bottle with my Dollar Store corkscrew. I bought it for a $6 camper supply “buying frenzy” several months earlier. I poured some wine into a stainless steel camping mug and took a sip. We continued to talk. Eventually, it was deemed that Tom’s stew was done and he pulled the Dutch oven off the fire. I contributed some paper plates, bread, salt, and a black garbage bag. Not much of a contribution, but at least I felt the I was doing something.

There is nothing quite as delicious as hot food when you are standing out in the cold for hours. I felt like I was dining at a 4-star restaurant. I ask for and received seconds.

Tom’s son was starting to fade and wanted to go to bed. Tom set up a bed in the back seat of his truck’s cab and off he went. Tom and I continued to talk for several more hours as even a single glass of wine can turn me into a philosopher. At some point, I started to talk about the existence of God. Eventually, we both felt the need to call it a night. Tom set up a place in his truck for him, and I fluffed the blankets in my camper van for me. My Walmart heater was definitely warming the van, and I was grateful, as I knew that it was going to drop to 19F during the night. Bedtime, 10:30 PM on New Year’s Eve.

I can’t say that I slept perfectly, but I did sleep reasonably well. The morning came, and I could hear Tom’s diesel running. He started his truck at 2 AM, as the cold was beginning to make his feet numb. It was time to break camp. The firewood had done its job, and all of it had been consumed. Without the fire, we would have never have been able to spend hours the night before standing in the freezing cold

“Breakfast?” Tom said. “Of course,” I replied. It was now the moment of truth. Would the Promaster be able to navigate the snow and drive out of the campground? Tom backed it out, and then I climbed into the driver’s seat and shifted the gear selector into drive. I lightly, but purposefully, pressed the accelerator and the van moved forward. Down the snowy path I went. Soon we were back on the road that had been so treacherous the night before. However, it was now plowed and sanded. Off to Baraboo.

There is a little breakfast joint in Baraboo that resides in an old diner. The diner building was once located somewhere in New England. Apparently, it was disassembled and stored for decades in a warehouse in Ohio. It was discovered there and reassembled in Baraboo, piece by piece. The inside of the restaurant is in a classic diner style, replete with green vinyl upholstered booths and an abundance of chrome. We have eaten there in the past, and I knew that they served a hearty breakfast.

We pulled up to the diner, and I was happy to see that it was open on New Year’s Day. Inside we found an open booth, which was easy as only one other table was occupied as was one chair at the counter. Tom and his son went to wash their hands as the waitress came over. She reminded me of Flo, from those Progressive Insurance commercials. The back of her T-shirt proudly proclaimed, “Body By Bacon.” I knew I was in the right place. Tom and his son returned, and we placed our orders. Both of them ordered omelets. I went for eggs over easy and sausage links. By the time our order arrived, I was well into coffee, but I had to consciously control my consumption as I would soon be on the road. I didn’t want to have to stop every 30 minutes. We confidently noted that we were the very first people to use a campsite at Devil’s Lake State Park in 2019. We did this with the vibrato of Lewis and Clark explorers.

With our bellies once again full it was time to start the journey home, and after a few directional missteps, we were on the newly plowed and salted Interstate heading south. Tom called me and noted that he was going to exit as his son wanted to explore the sporting options at Cascade Mountain. I wished him well and drove on.

I made a call to Julie to let her know that I was safe and heading home. I traveled the rest of the trip in silence and entertained myself with memories of the last 24 hours. I was grateful that I brought the right clothes, enough food, and the right van equipment to weather the storm. I was thankful that I had traveled with my friend, Tom. He thought to bring some things, I remembered others. Together, we had enough.

The nausea of the drive in had long passed, and the pleasure of the trip was present in my mind. I don’t think I would have gone if I knew that I would have had to travel in a snowstorm, but that was behind me, and I was left with the sweet memory of a crazy camping trip where only three people filled a huge campground with their adventurous spirit. It was a great way to start the New Year and to kick off my impending retirement.

Happy New Year, dear readers.

Me, in the snow.
Tom building the fire.
Dinner cooking!
Winter Camping!
We had the campground completely to ourselves.
Peaceful.
The next morning, eggs, sausage and toast for breakfast…and of course coffee.