I roast chicken, typically, at least once a week.  I put the bird on a flat rack, on top of a baking sheet, and roast at 450 degrees for one hour.  Perfect chicken every time with absolutely perfect skin, top and bottom.  Seriously, to die for.  My oven, however?  Let’s just say that it’s not pretty.  Chicken grease and splatters everywhere.  I was roasting some almonds last week and after peering into the oven through the glass, I panicked and yanked the door open to remove my overly toasted almonds.  They hadn’t even begun to toast - it was the brown coating on the glass that led me to believe I’d over roasted them.  Embarrassing?  Yes, after that realization!  See, cleaning the oven has never been on my radar.  There are some things I enjoying cleaning, some things I don’t, and some things, I’m discovering, that I’m only just now, at the ripe ol’ age of 28, realizing I need to do.  Yes, I know that’s sad.  I blame it on my mom.  It’s all her fault.  She never let me clean.  I had to learn how to vacuum from my very first supervisor, working at Afterthoughts (like Clair’s) in the mall, while she watched and laughed as I went about finding the on “button” and promptly got the cord tangled in some low hanging necklaces and other jewelry on display.  Oddly enough, as I got older, I discovered that I have a passion for vacuuming.  I have an odd fascination with seeing dirt and grime sucked up by these nifty housekeeping machines.  Fitting, I suppose, that I married an accomplished Kirby salesman (no joke).  He actually hasn’t sold Kirby in years, but he does have one and he retains more carpet cleaning knowledge than any human probably should.  He talks vacuum attachments and I start twitching and drooling.  Oh, dear…I’m way off track…  In more ways than one, apparently.

I think I remember my mother cleaning the oven using the “self-cleaning” feature on their old 1970’s oven only once (recently upgraded to a gorgeous, stainless Viking, which I covet).  I don’t remember much about it except that there was much trepidation surrounding it.  I was not, under any circumstances, to go into the kitchen.  I’ve held a vision of a fire blast shooting out of the oven, incinerating me, ever since that day.  That could be, possibly, why I’ve resigned oven cleaning to the back of my mind.  What?!  Clean it by hand, you say?!  Oh, HELL no.  I’ll just leave it at that.

So, since we recently purchased a brand spankin’ new oven with a self-cleaning feature, I figured the door locks must have come a long way over the years since my mother’s latch lock, possibly fixing that whole “fire blast” “incineration” issue.  At least I hope so, because I just called our home security/fire company to warn them (she sounded slightly amused as I tried to casually explain and pretend that it was no big deal), set the oven to clean, and am now currently enjoying the oh-so-soothing smell of chicken grease cooking at over 900 degrees.

If I don’t update again, it’s because my childhood vision came true.