The Gates of Hell

I would strongly caution anyone against cleaning an oven without first making sure that he is in full possession of his soul.

Readers of this column may recall that my soul and I have been on the outs for a while.  She's separated herself from me, ostensibly because I've taken a job as a concierge in a luxury hotel.  But I think the job is just a pretext for some larger problem between us that she doesn't want to talk about.  Anyway, it's gotten to the point where I've been sleeping on the couch most nights.

As a sort of peace offering, I recently decided I’d make her a nice dinner and dessert.  I wasn’t sure if she’d even be able to eat it, her being a just a soul and all, but I was kind of at a loss for gestures.

It was only after I'd bought all the ingredients that I realized I’d never actually used my oven before.   Never so much as opened it.  I had no idea what the interior even looked like.

It looked like a cave made of grease.

I’m not even sure that’s a metaphor.