Secret Dinner (Part Three)

(continued from yesterday...)

I run back out and crank up the gas. As I run back inside I try not to picture the newspaper article, my entry on the Darwin Award Website, my burnt corpse. Well that would really surprise Sarah wouldn't it? Probably less so than me cooking her a decent meal though. ok cool. We can do this.

It is again with trepidation I light a match, lift the stove top and light the pilot lights. I open the oven, light a match, protect my eyebrows with one hand and extend my arm into the filthy ancient dark mouth of Mr. Propane.

"Foof!'

The pilot light lights. I take a deep breath, grimace and crank up the oven to 400.

Pftsss...

one mississippi...

ssssss...

two mississippi...

sssssss...

three mississippi...

ssssssss...

four mississippi... crank it to 500.

SSSSsssss...

five mississippi...

ssssssssss...

six mississippi... I wonder if all this sweat will

sssssssssss...

seven mississippi... protect me from the impending explosion?

ssssssssssss...

eight mississippi... fuck it. crank it to broil...

SSSSSSSSSSSS...

nine mississippi...

SSSSSSSSSSSSS...

ten missi-

and then calmly from the long burner, little blue flames creep out from back to front at a slow and even pace without a sound, first the up the right-side, then slowly up the left. wow. cool. peaceful and anticlimatic, unexpected and welcome.

ok I've fucked around enough. I replace the bottom tray.

'foop. ssssssss...'

shhhiiiiitt... I reach for the bottom tray and nearly burn my hand.

'sssss...'

fuck. FUCK! Where the hell is the hot thing holding machine?! fuck fuck SHIT!

"ssssss..."

I quickly search drawer to drawer.

"sssssss...'

nothing. I panic. run outside and turn off the gas, shit fuck shit. What the fuck am I suppose to do now? fuckity fuck.

Dejected, I walk back into the kitchen. Now without a brain clouded in panic I find a stack of oven mitts beside the stove and remove the hot heavy black and dirty metal plate. I look around the kitchen. It's 4:14.

fuck. I pause.

ok ok we are going to do this again. I fan the evil black hole of the accursed Mr. Propane and run back out to crank up the juice.

Light a match, crank it up and ten mississippies later, were cookin' with gas. I put in the fish and close the oven and turn it to 350. I look at that dirty metal plate on the counter and shake my head. I'm clearly the stupidest person I know. It must be in part of the stove for a reason... It's probably some kind of safety device. I put my head in my hands and think again of the Darwin awards. I hope I at least place high.

I start lighting candles by the windows and on the table. and after about five minutes later I open the stove to check on the fish. The burner's off. what? but, but

'ssssss..."

SHIT! fuck fuck. What do I do? fuck.

'sssss...'

I open the door again. the pilot light went out. fuck.

'sssss...'

I look around at the 20 or so candles I lit...

'ssssss...'

...think briefly of the Darwin awards...

'sssssss...'

and turn off the stove.

FUCK!! fuck FUCK!! maybe I can just go to my apartment and... I look at the set up, I look at the time. no fucking way. FUCK. ok once more into the breach my good-hearted Pif.

With Mr. Propane's evil HOT filthy black HOT ancient HOT mouth open I again hold a match under the pilot light. nothing. what? I retract my arm. FUCK!!!!! fuckit. I crank the juice, light a match, wait a second, then put my boney white arm back into the monsters mouth bravely pinching my tiny lit match.

"FOOosh."

ok it's lit. I crank the heat to max and leave it there. Close the door and swear not to open it for 15 more minutes.

(to be continued...)


Today's Song of the Day is "Harvest Moon" by Neil Young off his 1993 album "Neil Young Unplugged."

Crazy fact: In 1966, Neil Young moved from Toronto to Los Angeles in his Hearse. Crazy cool car.

njoy