Before Thanksgiving, one of the stove eyes on our glass range cracked. I had to make do with three burners through the holidays.
The whole experience made me wish we had a gas range. Mamaw and Papaw had one in their kitchen when I was growing up.
As a little girl, I lit a sparkler on the gas cooktop. I got scared when it caught fire and dropped it in the trashcan. The trash went up in flames. Papaw came running and tossed the can out into the creek.
The fire left soot on the side of the oven. It wiped right off with a little soapy water.
Years later, as Mamaw canned hamburger soup, her pressure cooker exploded. The lid hit the kitchen ceiling so hard that it left a dent. The dent is still there.
Somehow, the range survived. It was like a Timex – it could take a licking and keep on ticking.
I looked into putting a gas stove in our house to replace the broken range, but it would have cost us an arm and a leg. Not only would we need to buy a new range, but we’d have to run gas lines to the house, too.
Instead, we settled for another electric glass top. It has a built-in air fryer and five stove eyes.
When I told the girls about the new stove, they looked confused.
Eyes? What do you mean, eyes?
I reckon I don’t use the term enough. I picked it up from my grandparents.
In old wood stoves, that’s what the burners looked like. They were circular holes in the cast iron oven. The fire within looked like a pupil in the center.
I still call them eyes, sometimes. What do you call them? Is it a burner or an eye?