by Kristy Kassie
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 Shane 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,” Shane 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. Shane 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 Shane 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.
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Copyright Kristy Kassie 2017