Home on the Range

On Tricycles and Crash Helmets

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From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Newsletter (October 1984)

The Classic Look of Glass, Incorporating Handsome Accents of Woodgrain, sounded intriguing. But oh, that Promise of Clean! That’s what started my mouth watering for a new kitchen stove.

Imagine, I said to myself, in the seductive language of the advertising copy writer: the full-width storage drawer, with ample space for pots and pans, may be easily removed to provide unobstructed access when cleaning the floor under the range.

When cleaning the what?

But the proffered guarantee of cleanliness primarily covered the oven, not the floor. If I were to latch on to one of these beauties, I could choose the self-cleaning or continuous-cleaning model. I could press a button any hour of the day or night and stand there observing baked-on splatter vaporize. In addition to that alluring Promise of Clean, there was an implied Promise of Interesting.

Pretty soon, I concluded that the picture of me consorting with one of those new-fangled “cooking centers” is simply not me. Me is perfectly content navigating a white—not almond, olive or harvest gold—job, circa 1954, which has a never-cleaning oven and four burners that do not plug in and plug out for easy removal and cleaning of reflector bowls. I call those things burner bibs and buy replacements whenever the ones currently in use cease responding to my casual swipe with a soapy sponge.

I was uneasy about those Handsome Accents of Woodgrain, too. If it were real wood, I think it would be called wood. The only thing plastic about my 30-year-old stove is the knobs, a non-feature that makes me feel like a privileged custodian of vintage Americana.

The stove was eighteen years old when we bought the place in 1972. We were going to replace it forthwith, but after brief deliberations, the family finance committee strongly recommended a policy of thrift. Never mind the shortage of doodads—no magical dials, no window in the oven door, no light in the oven. The darn thing worked. So what if the panel just below the oven flew open and hit the floor with an awful crash every time I opened the oven door? I figured out soon enough how to prop my foot against the panel and actually came to enjoy the noisy little feature. For twelve years, the family maintenance committee has not seen fit to fix it, apparently waiting to see how long the foot will hold out.

All my 1954 Hotpoint has going for it is the simple, doodad-less fact that it works. And it works good. My repairman, who comes to fix the dishwasher, the refrigerator and the washing machine, but never the stove because the stove has never needed service, told me you could drive a tricycle into my stove without denting it, but that the ones they make today crumple and chip at the drop of a spoon.

When I want to feel sorry for myself, I think of all the years I could have been driving a tricycle into my stove and watching it not dent. I certainly have no business feeling sorry for myself over the fact that it’s well on its way to winning the equivalent of an Oscar for best and longest performance by a major appliance. And even though I’ll admit my head can be turned temporarily by a Promise of Clean and a Classic Look of Glass, I know I’d hate myself if I ever turned in that heirloom for the cheap thrill of zapping some harmless blueberry-pie overflow into ash.

Not only that, but the cheap thrill is not cheap. For what one new range would set me back, I’ll bet I could outfit ten kids with new tricycles and crash helmets and have more fun watching them bounce off my oven than I’d ever have cleaning the floor under it.

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illustration by my mom, Karyl Bannister

Amie’s Headnotes

It’s Cook & Tell’s 3-year “digital” birthday this month (technically we’re 50 years old, if you count the original newspaper column that my mom began in 1976) and we’re celebrating with the super easy 3-ingredient cake I made on New Year’s Eve, involving neither oven nor trike.

Side Note: Cook & Tell really started 60-some years ago, with the letters and recipes my mom and grandmother exchanged before I was even born, and eventually became the manuscript for a never-published cookbook in the late ‘60s—the foundation of the book I’m writing about three generations of female food writers.

3-INGREDIENT ICE CREAM CAKE

• 1 half gallon (or, in current shrinkflation terms, 1.5 or 1.75 quarts) ice cream of your choice; I used Brownie Carmel Moose Tracks

• 1-11.78 oz. package Oreo Thins

• 3 T. unsalted butter, melted

Remove ice cream from freezer and let soften slightly, enough to scoop and spread easily over a cookie crumb crust. Don’t let it melt, though—I let it sit for about 30-35 mins.

While ice cream is softening, crush Oreos in a Zip-lock with a rolling pin. Reserve 1/4 of the crushed cookies and set aside in small bowl. Crush the remaining cookies even more to help crust stay together.

In medium bowl, mix remaining 3/4 crushed cookies with melted butter. Spread evenly over an 8 x 8” pan, forming a cookie crust. Spread softened ice cream over the crust with the backside of a soup spoon and top with reserved crushed Oreos.

Cover and chill in freezer overnight.

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Amie’s Endnotes

Like my other two goals for 2026, my culinary resolution is simple: cook it easy. Some of you may remember the so-called “Cook It Easy” section in vintage issues of Cook & Tell. Happy New Year, people, I’m bringing it back!

Anyway, at this stage of my life I figure I have more years behind me than ahead, so why spend it all in the kitchen? Also, I’m still writing this damn book and may be for the rest of my life.

Besides resolving to complete a final (?) draft of the book this year, I’m also reshaping the way I eat, which I’m told is a very stereotypical resolution (thanks, Allie!) but whatever: the plan is to eat clean for January. Clearly, ice cream cake is off the menu, but I’ve found a way to have my cake and eat it, too. I’ll write more about this Protein Carrot Cake in the next issue.

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Your Pantry Pals,

Amie & Karyl

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