Last month, a local chef came over to make cookies. I knew what she’d say when she walked in my kitchen.

“Oooooh, look at that stove!”

The oversized, white enamel Gaffers & Sattler stove came with the house, which was built in 1948. Previous owners remodeled the kitchen in the late Nineties, putting in pink and blue formica, blonde cabinets, a fancy built-in refrigerator and a hideous mauve sink — but they kept the stove. I oohed and ahhhed when I first saw it, too.

“Don’t you just love it?” the chef gushed, as she unloaded her bag of baking supplies on the counter.

“No,” I said matter of factly, reaching for cookie trays. “I fucking hate it.” And at the look of horror on her face, I added, “Just wait til you see the cookies.”

I never thought I’d be the kind of person who’d willingly get rid of a vintage stove. Years ago, I ripped an article out of Real Simple about a woman who traveled cross-country to find someone to fix her old stove. That’s me! I thought. I’m Vintage Stove Girl! Even before all the shows about pickers and junkers (and hoarders) made it popular, I was poking around thrift stores and dragging friends to flea markets. “Other People’s Shit” — I love it. History, character, a piece of furniture (or a tchotchke or an appliance) with a story to tell. The stove sold the house. When it stopped working so well — when the burners didn’t always light and the door had to be duct-taped shut, to me that just added charm. But then the thing started cooking unevenly, and heating up the kitchen like crazy. At one point, I have to admit, creatures were spending time in the half that had never worked. The stove needed an overhaul, desperately, and the only vintage stove repairman we could find in the state wanted to take it away for six weeks — for $3000.

I stalled, switching out the duct tape every so often and tossing lit matches at the burners from across the room. (That might be a slight exaggeration about the match tossing, but you get the point.) Finally, it was time. It was time, in fact, to redo the whole kitchen. I figured we’d send the stove away, planned for it, thought about how the new kitchen would look with the Gaffers & Sattler center stage.

And then one day, I changed my mind. It was nothing dramatic; to be honest I don’t remember the final straw. Maybe a burner that wouldn’t light or a particularly under/overcooked batch of vegetables. I looked at that stove and instead of a treasure, I saw an eyesore. I was done. Instead of defending my oven to visitors, I began to talk smack about it.

The chef carefully peeled the duct tape back and opened the oven door, pulling out the cookie sheet. Half the cookies were raw, the others burned.

“See?!” I said.

“Okay, I get it,” she admitted, standing back to consider both the stove and the cookie sheet.

“Hey! I know!” she said. “You can always turn the stove into a planter. Or maybe a bookcase!”

Um, no thanks. The next week, I marched into an appliance warehouse and bought a brand new, stainless steel wall oven/microwave combo. It’s everything that my old oven isn’t. I love it.

I sat at the appliance saleswoman’s desk as she wrote up the sale, fiddling with my phone. “Hey!” I said, holding it out, “want to see the stove I’m replacing?”

She wasn’t so interested, but I took the phone back and stared at the stove, admiring the giant knobs, the still-shiny enamel, thinking about everything I’ve cooked in that oven and on the stovetop: my first matzoh ball soup; my first brisket; my first Christmas turkey; my first apple pie; my first (and second and third — I kept screwing up) loaf of bread. Every year for the last 15 years, I’ve pulled hundreds of holiday cookies from that oven. This year has been no exception. The kitchen remodel’s scheduled for January, so all month, I’ve waxed nostalgic as I’ve baked in the kitchen — even gotten a little sentimental over the pink sink and that hideous Formica.

A couple weeks ago, a house across the street from us disappeared. Literally. It was there one morning, gone by nightfall, a tear down. To be honest, it wasn’t a particularly attractive house from the outside; I never was inside, perhaps it was a mess. But knocking down an entire house? I was horrified. I stood in the yard and stared for a while, then turned and walked into the kitchen. The Gaffers & Sattler stared at me, accusingly, the replacement stove just a room away, waiting for January.

Nostalgia aside, there’s no turning back. Nor will there be an oven planter in my backyard. But in the next couple of weeks, there will be a Gaffers & Sattler oven — in working condition, needs a little TLC, circa 1948 — on Craig’s List. She deserves someone who will truly love her.

Vintage Stove Girl (or Boy) is out there.