Gassy

Our new kitchen has gas.

I have absolutely no previous experience with gas. Don't even know anyone with gas. I think the closest I've ever come is a camp stove. And now that I'm thinking about it, I'm not even sure I've ever lit a camp stove (this probably isn't true, but I really can't think of how you do it...).

Anyway, when we first got here, David showed me how to turn it on (in reality he just flipped it on in my presence). Next day, with much hesitation I did what I thought David had done and succeeded in filling the kitchen with gas. Oops. Paranoia sets in. David comes home and shows me how to turn on the stove. Ok, check (if a bit creepy). Next day I figure I'll tackle the oven. It hisses and there is clearly flame coming out the bottom. Is that normal? OMG I'M GONNA DIE. So I turn the oven off and call my mom, who says something about 'lighting the pilot' and goes on to share stories about burning of eyebrows and homes. Thanks mom.

For the next month I am paranoid of flaming death dealt forth from my stove. But as the saying goes, time heals all wounds (including unfounded mental ones). This stove is wonderful. It can kick out some serious heat and it's SO EASY to clean! Oh, we are the best of friends. At least I think so.