One day, I was over over at a friend’s house and we decided we were going to bake cookies. My friend’s mom wasn’t home, but her dad was. We got permission, even though we really didn’t know what we were doing. Mr. Steve (we called the parents in the neighborhood by their first name but with their proper title) should have known that something was amiss. We usually were more interested in catching bugs for our pet frogs than we were with cooking.
Mr. Steve was a very tall man (over 6′ 4″). He worked for the government and I always remember him in a button down shirt. He also wore a huge Omega with a gold dial. It looked big even on him.
Prior to this, our greatest kitchen achievement was making our own playdoh or making papier mache. We decided to apply the same principles. We added water to most of a bag of oatmeal and stirred it up. I don’t know what we did, but the consistency was more like concrete. We stood on stepstools, not because we couldn’t reach, but because we needed the leverage. After the sounds of whispery chatter, a thud, and then laughter, Mr. Steve came down to see what the heck was the matter. He took the wooden spoon from us and “tried for himself.” He mixed up the “batter” a few times and could barely get the spoon out.
We gave up on cookies and put it in the oven as one big blob to see what magic could come from our wonderful creation.
A short time later, Mr. Steve came down in his jeans. He never more than halfway changed from his work clothes, as he was still wearing his work shirt. I don’t think I ever saw him in a sweatshirt, but jeans was even a rarity. Anyway, he asked my friend if he had put his watch on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t there.
Steph and I both looked at eachother. Oh no, it couldn’t be, could it?
We opened up the oven and stabbed a fork in the mess and there it was!! Oh we were going to be so dead. We fished the watch out and quickly tried to clean it up. We were surprised it looked so “clean.” We thought it would have all sorts of sugar or slime over it.
Mr. Steve took one look at it, and he didn’t get mad, but he said “It came out clean, so I guess the cake…or whatever it is…is done.” Guess we didn’t need the cake tester. It was more like mortar, anyhow.
Whenever I see a display of Omega watches anywhere, I think about tracking down Mr. Steve and sending him one. In fact I was looking at The Watchery and there are so many styles, that I am having a hard time in my foggy memory remembering the exact specs on his. I think I am more amazed seeing the price tags that Mr. Steve was more bemused than upset back in the day. I remember his watch survived the incident cosmetically, but don’t know if it was ever “right” again having been subjected to 400 degrees for thirty minutes. Maybe watches that come with a good price tag hold up better?
Even so, just like a careful surgeon, I will make sure no hardware ends up in the patient again!
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