A few years ago we had to change out my favorite gas cooking stove. An old 1950ish Vulcan. White enamel coated, with four large burners and 12″ on each side for extra work space. It had the storage door on the front for cookie sheets and other thin pans. I loved that stove. It was a beautiful gem. A beast.
Then the oven went. My husband, a burner tech and licensed LP guy, searched for replacement parts, for months. To no avail, she wasn’t able to be repaired. It hurt to see that beautiful old stove leave. We have history.
Being off-grid, gas stoves are pretty much a necessity for us, unless I want to maintain a wood cookstove for a few hours, to get the temperature I need and then continue to regulate the temperature. It’s even more fun on an 80° summer day. Not advised. Gas is just easier.
At the house, we had propane appliances i.e stove, heater, dryer. Here, we have everything propane. I know many people who are terrified of propane. Today, propane appliances all have electronic or battery ignition. Nothing to be too concerned with. Our old, beautiful stove was match light. Many woman (and men) in years past have singed their hair and eyebrows. Myself being one of them.
Moons ago, I came to camp with one of my bestfriends, Diana. It was spring in Maine. Drizzling and raw. We had been outside for awhile and came inside to make dinner and warm up. As we stepped into the tiny galley kitchen, a little grey field mouse scurried under the stove. We assumed he escaped through the hole in the floor, that is now plugged.
The old Vulcan oven had to be lit everytime it was used. Definitely not designed for the elderly by any means. Having to get down on the floor and reach in to light the burner with one arm, turning the knob above your head with the other hand, is pilates. Not yoga. All awhile, trying to light a match AND keep it burning. A circus act at best. I’m personally thankful for butane strikers. Even then, it’s still a pain in the keister.
This particular day I had a brain fart. Then a headache. I was laying on the cold wooden floor, lighting the oven. Being ancient, the knob turned extremely hard for the oven. I’d light the striker and turn on the gas. Nothing. Again. Light the striker, turn on the gas, slight puff. What the hell is going on? I’d never had an issue before. The entire time Diana is standing over me, in the doorway. Again. Light the striker, turn on gas….
Diana screams…(I’m laughing as I write this)
The oven door blows open, slams me in the head. My head, bounces off the floor and closes the oven door. Somewhere in there, as Diana is standing over me, she watches my face and head be completely encased by flames.
I’m laughing my tail off, she’s yelling at me, crying..(still laughing here) “It’s not funny, It’s NOT funny”
Well, dumbass here thought it was. I realized then I was lighting it from the wrong spot. I forgot to open the broiler door and light it from there. Where the burner was. Duhh…
All I had to say about the whole thing:
1. Thankfully it was a rainy day and my hair was wet.
2. Hope that poor cute field mouse escaped.
3. I can be in a coma and remember how to start that damn oven.
I was awarded the nickname “Poofy” that day.
Off-Grid Soul 