The stove considered itself a fairly levelheaded appliance, compliant to its Master’s whims and obedient to the T to whatever power setting chosen. Today, however, as the Master was preparing luncheon, consisting of soup — a reddish brown broth mixed with cream, ready-made and bought on the cheap at the local corner shop — the stove for the first time in its long existence pondered the possibility of a prank. The Master did of course know nothing of the stove’s plans as he placed the old pan upon the stove, cut open the small container and dispensed the contents — the source of the afternoon’s creative energy, grabbed the whisk from the bottom drawer and attempted to turn up the heat hidden inside the stove’s massive heart. What followed is best described in slow-motion, as a realtime commentary would be too vivid an experience for unprepared readers: the gentle turning of the knob was interrupted by the pan unexpectedly coming off the stove, flying towards the Master’s face but before hitting said face fortunately deciding to change to free-flying and subsequently landing on the kitchen floor where approximately half of the contents made what looked like a preplanned escape from the containing vessel, surging forward disregard all rules implied and explicit, seeking its freedom by attaching itself to every available surface: cupboards, doors, fridge and freezer, basin, and ceiling; the kitchen carpet on which the Master stood now sported a small pond in which two feet were firmly planted. Through stained spectacles the Master saw the mess made but did not for one moment suspect the stove as the mastermind behind this luncheon calamity; but Master knew without doubt that the aftermath would be as sour.