24 hours as an Electric Hob

During daylight hours the hob's surface is a makeshift cupboard.
A stack of battered pans lean haphazardly on the backburner.
The top one contains half a slightly mouldy loaf.
Brought reduced and now well-past sell by date.
It's a wholesome loaf of sunflower seeds and oats.

The four on/offs are clean but for a ring of unreachable grease.
Most nights, usually around the same time, the hob is fired.
Low voices burble on the radio and wine fills a thirsty glass.
The ancient ring pops with last night's burnt milk.
The heat is not designed for delicate sauces.
Once hot it stays hot - there is no in between.
It's not great but it does.

On the menu tonight is Risotto. What one laughingly calls risotto.
Not an Italian culinary virtuoso's version.
But a winter warmer.
Of buttery veg and salty buds of rice.
Not slow cooked with judiciously sploshed sloshes of white wine.
But a hastily chucked together exceptionally garlicky delight.
To be eaten one handed with grated cheese.