My Ticker stopped last night. Kaput! It was 39 years old and already I miss it.
The Ticker is what I call my old-fashioned kitchen timer, a non-electric device that resembles a smallish white plastic alarm clock. You turn the dial on its front to choose any time for up to an hour, and it starts tick-tick-ticking (the sound of mortality) all the way to zero when its alarm bell rings with an urgent sound.
That old Ticker’s time dial had been chipped and battered over time. Despite that, it was foolproof, a reliable friend. I’ve relied upon trusty Ticker thousands of times throughout the years because baking (especially bread-baking) is one of my hobbies.
One fall night in 1985 while living in Alexandria, I decided to make a pumpkin pie. I whipped one up and popped it in the oven. On a notepad, I wrote down the time of when it should be done and kept one eye on the wall clock. About an hour later, the pie wasn’t done; it was jiggly. Fifteen minutes later, it still wasn’t done. Back into the oven it went. And then (oops!), I fell asleep on the living-room couch.
At that time, I was a reporter/columnist for the Alexandria newspaper, whose office was only a block from my cozy old downtown apartment above a florist shop on main street.
I woke up that morning and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I could smell something burning. The thought occurred to me that Traveler’s Inn, a restaurant very near my apartment, was scorching its morning caramel rolls. Then it suddenly dawned on me: my pumpkin pie! I dropped the toothbrush, hurried down the hall to the oven, opened it up and beheld a pitiful sight: a “pie” that resembled a nine-inch wide shiny-black hockey puck.
I let puck-pie cool as I ate breakfast. It was solid as a rock. Then I brought it to work where I set it on the front desk to show the receptionist ladies. Jaws dropping, eyes wide, they both said, “What in the heck is THAT?!”
“It’s a pumpkin pie,” I said. “I baked it last night. All night.”
News travels fast in a news office. Staff members gathered ‘round to see the “pie.” And, just as I’d predicted, a flurry of smart-alec remarks began. Their reactions are as vivid as yesterday.
Sports Editor Larry: “That’s not a pie, it’s a new weapon. Call the Pentagon.”
Editor Mark: “Well, I’m sure glad you don’t write like you bake!”
Bookkeeper Helen: “Denny, are you sure your apartment’s not on fire?!”
“OK, smart-alecs,” I said. “Now would anybody like a piece of this pie?”
Grimaces, laughter.
“Sure, I’ll have a piece,” said wisecracker Larry. “Did you bring a chainsaw to cut it?”
Proofreader Dorothy: “Denny, I thought you were a good cook!”
“Well, I am, but even good cooks bake a dud now and then.”
“You can say that again,” she said. “Dud pies!”
The boss reminded us about the company picnic that next weekend.
“What should I bring?” I asked.
“Anything,” he said. “Just NOT a pumpkin pie!”
Next day, Family Editor Marian walked over and plunked a paper bag down on my desk.
“Open it,” she said.
I did.
“Oh, it’s one of those timer gadgets. But why did you buy one for me?”
“Well, do I have to tell you?” she asked, squelching a chuckle. “Now use it!”
And I’ve been doing just that for 39 years – until last night when Ticker stopped while I was baking a loaf of “Peasant Bread.” Its dial seemed not to be moving. So I picked it up from the kitchen table, put it to my ear to hear the tick-tick-ticking. Nope. Dead. Dang it!
Is it possible to mourn a timer? Yes, it is. I think I’ll bury poor little Ticker in the backyard. Maybe with a tiny tombstone?
