So the old oven in the old apartment had ghosts in it. Little cold fingers that made baking kinda tricky, because those cold fingers moved. I estimate its age and mine as about the same, which is to say--a young, strong, vibrant person, and an raddled ancient machine haunted by the spirits of ruined baking projects.
And now, we have the Devil Box. The new oven has a portal straight to Hell in it. Like, Sunnydale's got nothing on this hellmouth. I reckoned it ran hot the first time I used it, but I saved that batch of pulla. Then it did fine with scones. And then it tried to char the lemon drops, and then I got a thermometer to tell me exactly how inhospitable and inaccurate this damned thing was.
Fifty degrees, more or less. More, at the higher ends, because once it's hot, it keeps heating. Yesterday it shot from 400 to 475 (when it's set on 375) in the space of 12 minutes. This morning, we had stable muffin-baking at a set temp of 350 and a target, actual in-oven temp of 400.
This is a challenge for someone who bakes quite a bit, and who does not care at all if the microwave works or not (it does, for the record: I melted butter in it last week). I suspect Former Tenant never cracked the oven in his tenure here (I say "he" because of the little stash of condoms forgotten in the top corner of the closet, where no woman other than Brienne could reach without a ladder, which was how I found them. With the ladder, not Brienne).
At some point, I may have to see if maintenance here extends to calibrating the oven. But since at the moment we have one cat over the lease limit, I am avoiding that call. No, it's up to me and the thermometer to do battle with the Devil and keep those muffins, cookies, scones, and whatever else unburnt and edible.