Dear new oven,
I love you. I know we’ve only known each other for a few short days, but I love you. I can bake/roast/broil so much stuff inside you, and I don’t have to make the trek upstairs to the tiny microwave/convection oven every time I want to bake something. I can do, like, an entire batch of cookies inside you at once without having to break them up into 6 separate shifts.
I love that your bottom rack pulls out with the door, lessening the chance of me burning myself reaching all up into you. I keep forgetting and trying to push it back in before I close the door, but have patience with me – I’ll learn.
I love your sexy glass cooktop. I love that you don’t have crumb-catching coils that are just begging to set spilled stuff ablaze.
I love that your inaugural dinner was my grandmother’s porcupine meat balls (not porcupine meat, but meatballs with rice inside).
I don’t love that your only two shortcut buttons are “pizza” and “chicken nuggets,” but I’m willing to look past it.
I love that dozens of people out there can appreciate me taking pictures of you and plastering them on the interwebs.
And I love that you don’t judge me for baking shitty pre-cut cookies inside you after my first homemade dinner.
Besides, I only did it to determine where your hot spots were. Promise.