Sylvia Plath Oven Novels & Stories

They sat on the sofa and read in the Sunday quiet and outside the city did its thing and inside the flat was warm and she was in it and she had a reason to stay in it now that required no separate explanation. Priya came over on the Wednesday with dinner she had cooked in Tupperware, which she had never done once in twelve years of friendship, and when Olivia opened the door and looked at the Tupperware she said, what is this, and Priya said, I decided to be domestic in honour of the occasion, and Olivia said, you cannot cook, and Priya said, this is from a

I eye up the obviously melting tray in the oven and grimace, murmuring a cuss word under my breath and turn it off in a bid to limit the damage as I spy black sauce dripping down the shelf onto the next level. Shit “Ummm… Sure.” I start looking around for some sort of bowl or tray I can prop in there to catch what is now oozing between the bars of the shelf and grab the first thing to hand. I open the open door and shove the oven mitt under the now stringy drips and close it again with a slam. It stinks, like molten plastic and vomit mixed together and I realize that’s not black sauce… but liquid plastic tray.

At 7:30 am, sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sprawling apartment. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of pour-over coffee and the faint sweetness of butter-toasted bread. Silas, wearing a gray linen outfit softened through repeated washing, slid a perfectly cooked poached egg from the saucepan onto a porcelain plate. A pot of chicken soup was quietly simmering on another hob.

"You're less pale than last time." "Thank you," I said. "It wasn't a compliment, it was an observation." She stepped back. "Come in. There's something in the oven that needs to be tended to." Sophia moved through the house the way she moved through places she knew well — without looking for things, her feet knowing the distances already. I followed her into the kitchen. Margaret tended to the oven with the focus she applied to things she took seriously, and Sophia sat at the kitchen table in the chair she had always sat in, in the way that told me she had sat in that chair for a very long time.

As she showered, she noted that her cramps were much better than the previous day, which relieved her. After rinsing off, Sylvia quickly dried herself and dressed, feeling a newfound energy as she prepared for the day. She slipped into her favorite outfit, a comfortable but stylish ensemble that made her feel confident. Quickly changing into a new outfit, Sylvia dashed out of her room, her mind racing. As she entered the dining area, the aroma of food wafted through the air, drawing her attention. The sight of the spread on the table brought a smile to her face. She knew immediately that it was Stephan who had cooked. The colorful dishes looked mouthwatering, and she felt a pang of regret fo

Whoever trashed my house had not found the things that really mattered. I dragged the oven from the kitchen into the secret room. It was heavy, scorched from the blow someone had given it in the kitchen. It was exactly what I needed. I set it in the center of the concrete floor and took a breath I could not afford to waste. My muscles stirred like hungry animals.

He crouched by the stove, feeding it piece by piece, adjusting the flame to a steady burn. He lifted Olivia up, letting her stand in front of the stove and look into the oven. "Bread doesn't bake right the first time. I've been baking for over ten years. The first few years, mine came out black. Your first try, and it's not even burnt. That's already very good." She pressed herself against the oven glass, watching the bread slowly expand, the surface turning golden brown, the honey bubbling in the heat. The scent of pine nuts seeped through the oven cracks. She swallowed.

Was she seeing things? Zen set the egg mixture into a steamer and received no luck with the one sauteed in a pan. The mixture was simply looking grosser as he stirred them. Even if he let them sit, there was only a burning smell. He might be a little too optimistic about this vague plan. “It’s changing!” Sasha tapped Zen on the shoulder urgently and pointed to the oven. Turning the stove off and ditching the messy rubbish in his pan, Zen hurried over to the oven. True enough, something interesting was happening.

She hated me so much that she wouldn't open the oven door and admit she was wrong. When Carrie didn't budge, Marta sighed deeply. She reached out and grabbed the kitchen doorknob, speaking softly. "Ava, my sweet girl. Don't be afraid. Come out." But all that answered her was dead silence. She frowned and turned the knob. The door cracked open, and a horrible smell burst out from the gap. That was the stench of me being baked at high heat for so long and then rotting in that sealed space. Marta's expression shifted.

Soon, I found myself in a grand living room—a chandelier above, plush leather sofas below, all against a backdrop as dark as Sylus himself. ​I halted, balancing on my tiptoes, and walked through the setting until the aroma of the pancakes wrapped around me. ​My eyes scanned the massive kitchen until they landed on the source of the scent. ​Sylus was standing with his back to me, the early morning light casting sharp shadows over the broad, muscled expanse of his bare back. He effortlessly flipped a pancake in the pan, completely unbothered, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants.