The coffee maker crouched on the counter and made sinister burbling noises. It blinked its lights and hissed. It repeated this several times, added a few loud clicking noises, beeped, and then flashed a message at me in green electronic writing.

FILTER BASKET INCORRECTLY LOADED, it said.

"AAARG!!!" I said. I’m not a bad cook, but this was ridiculous!. In college I could whip up a decent meal using an unreliable stovetop and some old pots on loan from Mom. Here I had a whole kitchen; spacious counters, gleaming pans, and a plethora of shiny state-of-the-art food preparation appliances. My mistake had been in thinking that I could use these appliances without first getting a PHD in human/technology communications. "Gracie! What’s wrong with this thing? No, no, stay there, I’ll bring it in."

Gracie was the reason I hadn’t prepared a meal since college, she being to an ordinary cook what Lance Armstrong is to an ordinary bicyclist. She was also the reason I was now attempting to coerce her semi-intelligent culinary minions into producing something fit for human consumption. We had twins due in three weeks, and her doctor had threatened me with terrible things if I didn’t keep her on bed rest.

She glared at me past the dome of her stomach as I carried the coffee maker in for her viewing. "This is your fault, you know," she said. "What have you done to that poor machine?" She twisted around a little to get a better look at the appliance, still winking balefully from its backup power source. "Oh, I see. You’ve set it on espresso, but the filter basket is loaded in the cappuccino slot. Lift it up and rotate it a little. . . There, see? Simple."

I ground my teeth, "Very. And while I’m here, why is the refrigerator beeping every time I open it?"

"What type of beep?"

"The irritating type."

"The microbe trap has probably has detected something unsanitary and wants you to clean it. The tone and frequency of beep depends on how bad the mess is. Just leave it."

Back in the kitchen, the refrigerator’s tone had gone from insistent to annoyed. I ignored it as I reached inside for eggs, butter, milk, and cheese, but as I turned away the sixteen-inch plasma screen on the door lit up. Seconds later pictures of disinfectants and cleaning products began to scroll past accompanied by their prices and "BUY NOW!" links. "Darling," I called. "I knew about the plasma screen and DVD player, but when exactly did our refrigerator acquire internet access?"

"It was in the upgrade package two months ago, you remember," --no, I didn’t-- "It’s so convenient; when we’re running low on something, it automatically reorders it."

"Wonderful," I muttered, breaking eggs into the pan. "Now our kitchen appliances have our credit card numbers." I turned the heating knob to medium.

"Good morning!" said the stove. "Would you like some help?"

"What--?!" I dropped the butter on the floor.

"Our software has ascertained that you have no experience cooking with Cuisiniere Extrodinaire (TM) Gourmet Meals Made Easy Kitchen Help. If you would like help cooking your eggs, please say ‘yes’ clearly. If you do not need assistance at this time, please say--"

"No!"

"What, dear?" called Gracie.

"Nothing, dear, just talking to the stove!"

"Don’t trust what it says. It caught a virus--"

"--Our STOVE has internet access AS WELL?"

"Of course not, but the refrigerator caught it, and then it got spread through the in-kitchen network. It’s saying all sorts of unreasonable stuff--"

"--The concept of a talking stove being perfectly reasonable--"

"--just last week it read me some article about meat being more nutritious when eaten raw--"

"Please place the eggs in a deep saucepan and add five teaspoons of chocolate syrup," said the stove. "Measuring spoons can be found in the drawer to the right of the sink..."

"--and I think it put the microwave up to that little defrost/maximum power mix-up the other day."

"Once the eggs are nicely blackened, add a cup of ice chips and three tablespoons of cayenne pepper..."

I spun around, raced past the agitated refrigerator, banged through the garage door, and began rooting in the cabinets under the tool bench. The maxim, "When in trouble, try the garage," had never failed me, and it held true today. Bingo. I extricated what I needed and headed back to the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, I had just finished serving sausage, scrambled eggs, freshly chopped fruit, and rich black coffee to Gracie, and was about to start in on my own plate, when the fire-trucks arrived.

"We got an alert message from your stove," said the fireman at the door. "Said there was a fire in the kitchen."

I led him into the kitchen and pointed to the camping skillets and a portable cook stove I had set up underneath the stove fan. The man surveyed the scene, taking in the toolbox, the scattered screwdrivers, the wire-filled recesses in the silent refrigerator, the disconnected computer parts and backup power packs sitting next to the unplugged microwave and coffee machine. "You use Cuisiniere Extraordinaire (TM) Gourmet Meals Made Easy Kitchen Help."

"Yep."

"So does my wife," he said, "And take it from one who knows; it isn't over yet." He turned to go. "Good luck."

On the steps he paused. "Whatever you do, don’t go near the blender."