I bought a lovely oak baker's rack at the Amish shop, and the only place it would fit in my kitchen was the spot already occupied by a substantial end table holding a micro-wave oven. This micro-wave is 29 years old, and huge. You could roast a turkey in it, although I never have. It was my father-in-law's, and them his sister's, and finally, for the last 20 years, ours. It has always worked perfectly, never needing repairs, its ancient knobs still turning to set the energy level and cook time. But - it wouldn't fit on the baker's rack. My neighbor Sally looked the situation over and said, "Get a new micro-wave. It's not like it's a family heirloom or anything." Only it is.
So I got a new micro-wave. It's small and sleek and silver, with touch controls and a clock, and a rotating turntable. It just fits on the top of the baker's cabinet, and will free up that area of the kitchen. But it's only here on probation. The old one still sits in the corner of the kitchen until the new one proves itself. The new one cost $59, minus a $15 rebate, plus I had a 10% off coupon, so I practically got it for free. If it doesn't behave itself, I'll stick it in the basement, and put the old one back.
I'll stack some pots on the other shelves of the baker's rack, or get some pretty baskets to fill with tableclothes. I'll be happy with it.
So why do I feel like I just had the family pet put to sleep?
