Between the cracks

y kitchen’s inhabited by a smelly gremlin who sucks food and gawd-knows-what-else into the crevices between my stove and the counters. I was going to write about him last week after he ate my favorite wooden spoon, but I had a cold and figured the monster could hang around until afterward.

But the situation bothered my husband. Not the spoon, mind you, since we figured that for a total loss. No, the smelly monster smelled like gas. Not the kind I emit, silly. The kind that can cause your house to explode. So he called the gas company, who broke the land speed record getting here to make sure we were okay.

Wow, sure wish the plumber felt that way.

The gas man was garrulous and cheery, the kind who probably uses his blue coveralls with their cute flame logo as a cover so he can invite himself into your home and hang out with your kids. The kind who would easily overstay his welcome if you didn’t cheerfully remind him he must have other gassy households to rescue.

The first thing he does – before I can stop him – is pull the stove out from the wall. Oh dear. Our house is about 16 years old, and the stove is original, which means the gremlin hasn’t been disturbed in all that time, and had a nice little treasure trove accumulating back there.

This gremlin’s a near-cousin of the entropy trolls I sometimes write about, the ones playfully eroding the house down to its pre-Big Bang state of indeterminate particles. And, of course, it’s of the same genus as the sock monster in your dryer. And he’s been one busy goblin.

How do I know it’s a he, you ask. Aren’t I being sexist? After all, “he” is no longer the default pronoun in our language, is it, Ms. Smarty Pants Copyeditor? Gosh, sorry, guys.

But no sooner had that stove budged than my son – who naturally was hovering millimeters away – shouted “a car!” And sure enough, there was a toy race car. And a tiny green plastic soldier. And a marble. And half of a yo-yo and something that looked like it might once have been a ball. Not entirely masculine, but in the absence of doll heads or Barbie accessories, my brain thought “boy.”

Beneath mounds of dust were also several metric tons of crusty food particles that had moldered beyond recognition. My wooden spoon had found a mate, a grimy wooden spatula, and there were two perfectly preserved pieces of soy bacon. I don’t know about you, but I find it somewhat disturbing that soy bacon doesn’t decompose.

While the gas man did his shtick and chatted about stoves and kids and his wife and kids (he liked kids, I gathered), I swabbed the greasier side of the stove, swept up the rubbish and cleaned off the toys for my son, who did his happy jump-up-and-down-and-wiggle dance by way of saying “thanks.”

My kitchen no longer smells. The stove has given up its secrets. The floor is semi-clean. I have my spoon back, plus a bonus utensil. With my luck, they will spawn toothpicks, which I will promptly feed like tadpoles to the gremlin.

Comments

[plosh]

I could say the whole adventure was a gas, but then my goose would be cooked.

[Jack]

That gremlin has a relative living in my house.