Though they are stylish and simple to maintain, glass stovetops must be handled carefully to prevent damage. Here are nine risky behaviors to stay away from:
Applying Abrasive or Rough Cleaners
“Avoid using abrasive or rough cleaners as they can cause surface scratches.” Apply a mild cleaning made specifically for glass stovetops.
Setting Up Bulky Pots and Pans
Heavy cookware can cause glass stovetops to crack. “Use lightweight pots and pans” to shield surfaces from harm.
Pots and Pans that Slid
Cookware dragging may cause scratches on glass. Pots and pans should never be slid; always elevate them.
Leaving Traces and Leaks
“Clean spills promptly” to prevent damage and baked-on stains.
Using Unclean Cookware to Cook
Stovetop residue from unclean cookware might be harmful. Make sure your cookware is spotless.
Putting Hot Lids Down, Face Up
Hot lids have the potential to break glass and produce abrupt temperature fluctuations. Pick a surface that can withstand heat.
Disregarding Chips or Cracks
“Don’t ignore chips or cracks,” as they may enlarge and break the stovetop. Look for repairs right away.
Warming Up a Vacant Pot or Pan
Cooktop damage can result from overheating empty cookware. Keep food or liquids in your pots at all times.
Not adhering to the manufacturer’s recommendations
Observe detailed maintenance guidelines to prevent damage and safety risks.
Take care of your glass stovetop by avoiding these habits.
I Came Home from Vacation to Find a Huge Hole Dug in My Backyard – I Wanted to Call the Cops until I Saw What Was at the Bottom
When I cut short our vacation due to Karen falling ill, the last thing I expected was to find a massive hole in our backyard upon returning home. Initially alarmed, I hesitated when I spotted a shovel inside, leading me into an unexpected adventure involving buried treasure, newfound friendship, and lessons in life’s true values.
Karen and I rushed back from the beach early after she fell ill. Exhausted but wary, I decided to check the house’s perimeter before settling in. That’s when I stumbled upon the gaping pit in our lawn.
“What’s this?” I muttered, approaching cautiously.
At the bottom, amid scattered debris, lay a shovel. My first instinct was to call the police, but then I considered the possibility that the digger might return, knowing we were supposed to be away.
Turning to Karen, who looked unwell, I suggested keeping the car hidden in the garage to maintain the appearance of absence.
As night descended, I kept vigil by a window, watching and waiting. Just as I was about to give up, I spotted a shadow vaulting over our fence.
Heart pounding, I ventured out with my phone ready to call the authorities. Approaching the pit, I heard the clink of metal on earth.
“Hey!” I exclaimed, shining my phone’s light into the hole. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The figure looked up, squinting. My jaw dropped—it was George, the previous owner of our house.
“Frank?” he stammered, equally surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here, remember?” I retorted. “What are you doing in my yard in the middle of the night?”
George climbed out, looking sheepish. “I can explain. Just… please don’t involve the police.”
Arms folded, I demanded an explanation.
“My grandfather owned this place,” George began, “and I recently discovered he hid something valuable here. I thought I’d dig it up while you were away.”
“You broke into my yard to hunt for treasure?” I couldn’t believe it.
“I know how it sounds,” George pleaded, “but it’s true. Help me dig, and we’ll split whatever we find.”
Despite my better judgment, I agreed. Over hours of digging, we shared stories, George revealing his hardships—a lost job and his wife’s illness. His hope for this treasure to change their lives touched me.
As dawn approached, our optimism dwindled with each shovel of dirt revealing nothing but rocks and roots.
“I was so sure…” George’s disappointment was palpable.
Offering a ride home, we filled the pit and drove to his house, where his wife, Margaret, greeted us anxiously.
“George! Where have you been?” Margaret exclaimed, eyeing me curiously.
Explaining the situation, George’s dream of buried treasure was deflated by Margaret’s reality check.
“My grandfather’s tales were just that—stories,” she gently reminded him.
Apologizing, George and Margaret offered to repair our yard. I declined, suggesting they join us for dinner instead.
Driving home, I shared the night’s escapade with Karen, who teased me about my unusual night with a stranger. Reflecting on our conversation, I proposed inviting George and Margaret for dinner—an unexpected outcome from a night of digging for imaginary treasure.
As I assessed the yard in daylight, I realized life’s treasures aren’t always what we seek but the connections we forge along the way.
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