At Your Disposal

Having emerged from the fug of the worst summer cold in living memory, yesterday morning I stumbled back into the world - rested, if not refreshed - only to be greeted by an entirely new crisis.

In my absence, the garbage disposal in the kitchen sink had taken its last breath and turned its toes up unto the heavens. It no doubt lost its will to live after nine months of chewing on bean and packing excelsior-laden baking mixes; unaccustomed fibrous vegetable matter; and a whole host of strange substances associated with gluten-freedom fighting.

I know the feeling.

After fifteen minutes of frantic trouble-shooting during which we established that the problem lay nowhere obvious, Sir and I decided to splurge and buy a new machine. This was a fairly easy decision to make, since the deceased article had come with the house when we bought it eleven years ago and operated at a decibel level equivalent to a fully-loaded Airbus A-380 revving for takeoff.

The main question was how to effect its replacement. In honor of Father's Day I offered to do the deed. It is a salient fact that Sir loathes and despises Father's Day and refuses to allow its observance a chez Fractured Amy. While this lets the Kid Squid off the hook nicely - releasing him from customary shoe-shining and ashtray-fabrication duties - I am reluctant to allow Sir's stirling strivings throughout the year go unrecognized. Taking responsibility for an urgent household repair seemed an excellent way to mark the occasion and demonstrate my esteem.

Now, I like to think of myself as a Gal With Skills, particularly where culinary matters are concerned. I plumbed in the new refrigerator's ice dispenser even though I was obliged to drill a hole in the kitchen floor for the purpose of tapping off the basement water line. I carried out the initial soffit excavations to prepare the kitchen's western wall for the mounting of the industrial-sized fan required by my beautiful Wolf cooker. Installation of the Wolf also required some re-wiring of the wall circuits that I carried out with (if I may be so immodest) aplomb. I even engineered the construction and hanging of the pot rack that hangs, Sword-of-Damocles-like, over the kitchen table. Replete with saucepans, lids, colanders, mixing bowls, frying pans, my potato ricer and my food mill, I estimate (conservatively) that the entire apparatus weighs ninety pounds or so - and it hasn't yet fallen on the heads of any unsuspecting diners underneath.

Still, there's something about a garbage disposal that instills fear in even the stoutest heart. First of all, there's that no-man's-land precinct under the kitchen sink, dark and damp and rarely investigated. Anything at all could be lurking under there! Then there's the possibility that the appliance itself - in one last death throw - might suddenly whir into activity (kind of like a proverbial chicken with its head cut off) and slice and dice one's hand and forearm to smithereens. There could be a flood. I could be electrocuted. I might put the thing in backwards so that it blows rather than sucks, sending geysers of broccoli peelings spraying all over the kitchen ceiling.

I reasoned, however, that a girl who goes gluten free is capable of anything. With Home Depot's invaluable YouTube video How To Replace a Garbage Disposer streaming on my helpfully-positioned iPad; my trusty toolbox and generic Azapirone supply conveniently to hand; and with Sir providing much-needed moral support and the occasional refreshing cup of Earl Grey, I set to work.

A mere two hours later I had a safely-grounded, fully-operational, sucking-rather-than blowing disposal at my disposal. It was quite gratifying. Since it has 50% more oomph than the old one (in total more than one-third the horsepower of our first car ) I estimate it will be good for at least five years of gluten guerrilla action, no matter how many tapioca dinner rolls or loaves of Bread That Isn't I introduce into its gaping maw.

Plus, we discovered four unopened boxes of dishwashing detergent in the dark recesses under the sink.

Sir declared it the best Father's Day ever.