The thing with the stoves

When I first began my packing list, kind of informally, in my head, I included some cookware. This was because, inspired by books and word of mouth and the bragging (and cooking samples) of previous Italian teachers, I had envisioned that I would learn to cook in Italy. The air would sort of magically seep into my pores and cooking savvy would osmose its way into my brain, thus bestowing upon me the ability to produce risotto and lasagna in bolognese sauce and things of that nature. (Come to think of it, does bolognese sauce even go on lasagna? I want to say no, for some reason...)

It turns out that those early thoughts were a bit ambitious, in more ways than one. To begin with, there was no room to bring a pot in my luggage. Ditto a set of sheets, towels, and even some winter clothes. It turns out that two suitcases and 50kg are not very much. Also, while it is very magic indeed, the air of Italy has yet to uncover what latent cooking skills I may possess in any perceivable way.

In the first apartment in which I stayed, I declined to make anything more culinarily adventurous than a mozzarella sandwich. And twice I ate a tomato. It was hot, and the cutlery wasn't mine, and it all felt very temporary. I figured I could live on take-out and no-cook items until I found a more permanent place to live.

In the kitchen of the second apartment, the ironing table and clothes-hanging thing (what is that called in English?) were propped up against the fridge so that they all clanged together every time you opened it. The cupboards contained a mismatched set of dubiously clean kitchen-related items. The olive oil I bought, so proud of having a "permanent" place to stay, was stored on the floor in a corner. The microwave rested on the washing machine, which smelled of mold, dishsoap was nowhere to be found (until I bought some). And this was the abode of the Man Obsessed with the Water, who actually seemed to take offense when we asked him his opinion on using hot water for the dishes. (His suggestion was that we boil some in the kettle if we really felt it was necessary.) The final piece of this puzzle (um. not that it's really a puzzle. but whatever) is that this was where I noticed the thing about the stoves.

The thing about the stoves in Italy is that there is fire. Now, I know that on some basic level, there is also fire in electric stoves. Or, at any rate, some similar form of heat-making stuff. But here, the fire is out in the open. And sometimes it smells of gas, which is slightly less than reassuring. I examined the stove one day when I was walking through the kitchen to fetch a tomato, and noticed that it has a decidedly '70s air about it. Also the tiny bit of counter space next to it was sporting one of those trigger lighter things. Not a good sign in the least. That was the end of any thoughts of cooking in that kitchen that I had previously entertained. (I hadn't entertained many anyway, what with the dirt and lack of soap with which to remedy it.)

Thus commenced a period of four weeks during which, when I didn't eat out (by which I mean partaking of aperitivo snacks and calling them dinner), I subsisted mainly on lettuce, tomatoes, vinaigrette, bread, and nutella. And chocolate. And little snack type things. But that's a story for another day.

At the end of the four weeks, I had moved into a new apartment, complete with roommates who were closer to my age and also non-creepy. Always a plus. The apartment was all newly redone and very nice and I was very happy.

"So, do you like cooking?" asked one of my roommates on one of our first evenings together. I glanced over at her, pausing to eye the stove suspiciously. Three different pots were bubbling contentedly as flames licked around their bottoms. I didn't understand it. There was FIRE in our KITCHEN. Why was everyone being so calm about this? Anyway, though.

"Well, unfortunately I'm not very good at it. I don't know how to make much," I ventured in shaky Italian. It was a bit of an understatement, really. On a good day, I can produce scrambled eggs with minimal disturbance to those around me.

"Ah. So what's your best dish?" she inquired politely.

Hm. Toast? Grilled cheese? Something told me that neither of these would be an acceptable answer. And it would have been difficult to explain anyway, given that toast is the word Italians use for grilled cheese.

"Ratatouille," I finally said, praying that I would never be called upon to demonstrate. (I do more or less know how to make this.) The conversation segued conveniently into languages from here and I began to sigh with relief, stopping abruptly when I caught sight of the stove again. What's up with this nonsense, anyway? I wondered to myself. Someone should inform Italy that this is no longer the middle ages. Or the fifties. We have other kinds of stoves now. Ones that don't involve gas and an open flame and the potential to blow up your entire apartment building.

The stove still reminds me far too much of a bunsen burner for me to feel completely at ease when using it, but at least I can now turn it on without flinching at the little clicky sounds it makes as it tries to light, and boil my spaghetti without cowering in fear. In fact, I've even begun to appreciate how quickly it makes the water boil - quite miraculous, really. I can almost, almost see why people would own this kind of stove on purpose, availability of other kinds of stoves notwithstanding. However, this does not solve all my problems with cooking. To be revealed presently: the thing with the supermarkets.