I’ve never enjoyed cooking. It’s something I’ve been forced by hunger pangs and lack of sandwich bread to do from time to time. With the exception of freshly baked cookies and pies, I’ve never cooked anything so much more satisfying than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that it justified the extra costs in both material and labor.
Now, I live in Brazil. If cooking was merely uninteresting before, here it’s terrifying. It’s not the spiny vegetables and fruits or recipes using the metric system. It’s my stove. People here find it acceptable to have a kitchen appliance that combines both gas and an open flame.
I can’t remember the first dish my husband and I cooked in Brazil, but I do remember the first time I was asked to light the stove.
“Did you light the stove?” my husband asked.
“Sure, I turned the burner on,” I replied.
“Did you light it?”
“What do you mean ‘light it’?”
“Did you light the burner? With the spark button?”
“Spark button? What the heck’s a spark button?”
“You turned it on and didn’t light it?!” My husband is frantically turning knobs and opening windows. “You’re letting gas pour into the kitchen! You have to turn the knob and then hold the spark button to light the burner.”
“When you say ‘light’ you’re talking about an actual flame?” I asked with my mouth hanging open.
Against my better judgement, I did master the simple trick of opening the gas flow and holding a button to cause sparks in front of the opening. Every time the spark button went click, click, click, I thought about what a quaint, yet potentially lethal, contraption this gaseous machine is.
In retrospect, I was not fully appreciative of the huge technological leap that is the spark button.
My husband and I are currently split between two apartments. Rather than purchase new appliances, we hauled a variety of pieces out of retirement including a stove which I can only assume Benjamin Franklin designed. In order to use the stove, I’m required to strike a match and hold it to the gas opening. My fear of the stove is second only to my fear of lighting matches.
Every time I boil water I picture a massive explosion. In my head the blast rivals Hiroshima.
Here’s how I begin every cooking attempt:
Before using the stove, I get everything set. I double check the burner and its corresponding knob. I turn the gas on. Then I try to strike the match as quickly as possible. I hesitate on the first two strikes and they’re not hard enough to light. The third strike is too hard; the match breaks in half sending it’s lit head to the floor. I frantically and thoroughly stomp on the match. At this point, I realize the gas has been flowing for a few seconds. I imagine the mushroom cloud and turn the gas off. I’ll wait 20 minutes before starting all over.
My husband says stoves without flames are available for purchase in Brazil. All I have to do is say the word and we’ll go get one. But then, what excuse will I have to avoid cooking?
