The Red Stove And Self Blame

My parents purchased a small, old Cape Cod-style house when they got married, featuring a white exterior with blue shutters and a tiny kitchen where only one person could cook at a time. Adjacent to the kitchen, there was a worn-down dining room table adorned with scratch marks, carrying the memories of our homework sessions and pencil indentations. This table was the heart of our home, accommodating piles of paperwork, bills, artwork, and backpacks, and we often cleared it just before dinner. Life at that time felt typically normal, although I was frequently referred to as a sensitive child, hyper-aware of my surroundings. Unlike other kids who were intrigued by their environment, I absorbed everything around me—lights, smells, textures, and tastes overwhelmed me, making me acutely aware of my sensory experiences. I would feel rough and disturbed if a texture was rough, and I sought calm and comfort from soft blankets. Jeans were a poor choice for me as the buttons and inflexible waistband would uncomfortably constrict my belly button.

Once, while dressed in my mom's t-shirt and a pair of socks, I stuck my tongue out in disgust when my dad cut me a pear. I found the texture grainy and mushy, rather than crisp and sweet. The mushy texture was too overwhelming for me. Pleading with my dad, I said, "I don't like it." In response, he sternly told me, "You cannot leave the kitchen stool until you finish the pear," frustrated with my constant rejection of food based on my six-year-old preferences. Despite my objections, he insisted, "Sit on your butt and eat it," referring to the stool in the kitchen. My dad, whose father grew up during the Depression, had inherited a strong aversion to wasting anything, and I was challenging that value. Reluctantly, I sat down and stared at the pear on my little mermaid plate, waiting for my dad to leave the kitchen through the swinging door and disappear into the dining room. With our dog Max absent from the room, I contemplated where to hide the pear slices, disliking their texture and unwilling to stomach them. My gaze wandered around the kitchen, searching for a discreet spot that would evade my dad's notice. The microwave, toaster oven, and mixing bowls sat on a low shelf next to the outside door, but that location was too exposed. The tall, skinny pantry cupboard was already overflowing, ruling it out as well. Then, directly in front of me, I spotted a crack behind the side of our red oven—an ideal spot to push the pear slices without drawing attention. The moment I heard the swish of the door as my dad left the kitchen, I swiftly hopped off the stool and stuffed the pear slices behind the back of the stove. Racing to the pantry, I climbed to the top shelf and grabbed a marshmallow. As my dad's footsteps approached, I hurried back to the stool, grabbing the now-empty mermaid plate. When he saw that the pear was gone from my lap and saw me chewing, he allowed me to leave.

The following morning, I descended the stairs by scooting on my butt and then ran into the dining room. I heard unfamiliar voices and peeked through the swinging door into the kitchen, only to be horrified by a couple of guys carrying the red stove out through the back kitchen door. My heart sank to my stomach, convinced that I had broken the stove with the pear slices. At such a young age, I didn't understand that my parents were merely getting a new stove and that the timing was coincidental. Distraught, I rushed to the driveway and tugged on my dad's shirt, tears streaming down my face. Concerned, he asked, "What's wrong, Sarah?" with his brow and eyes furrowed. I whispered, looking at my bare feet, "I broke it." Confused, he inquired, "What do you mean?" Summoning the courage, I confessed, "I put the pears behind it. It's all my fault," holding my breath, afraid to exhale. My dad tenderly reassured me, his blue-grey eyes twinkling with a smirk, "You didn't break the oven. We wanted a new one. Thank you for being honest with me, though." He knew I hadn't broken the stove, but I had convinced myself that I was to blame. I easily took on the weight of thinking that I was the reason things fell apart even at a young age.

My dad never got angry with us if we confessed the truth after initially lying. He didn't want us to fear his reaction and stop coming to him. As I grew older, feeling safe while being honest held greater significance. It carried more weight, like the time I ran the van into his cherished Harley Davidson motorcycle and told him, despite knowing the anguish it would cause him.

After the stove crew had left and finished installing the new one, my dad reached for the food processor and pulled out a large block of Parmesan cheese from the fridge. I climbed onto the kitchen stool, hoisting myself onto the counter, and sat there, observing him cutting the block of cheese into tiny squares, sneaking salty and nutty bites whenever he turned away. I listened to the hum of the food processor, mesmerized by the cheese grating. He packed it tightly into a jar, perfectly level, and placed it in the fridge, ensuring a constant supply of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. He then turned to his blender and added numerous garlic cloves, creating what we called "Dad's dressing." In a large metal bowl, he combined pita chips, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, mixed greens, and his dressing, preparing his lunch. As we gazed out of the window into the backyard, watching our three-legged golden retriever Max play, he shared bites of his salad with me. For a while, I would continue to tell myself that I had broken the old one, even though it wasn't my fault. Perhaps parts of our our past are like the red stove. We convince ourselves we were the reason something fell apart, without considering the wear and tear accumulated over the years. I'm working on this. Processing and letting the red stoves go without blame.