In which I've been knocked on my ass by a fever and a cold and I just want a bowl of soup.
I'm a grown woman, I've lived alone before, I've survived colds before, I've done a lot of things in my life...like setting up home in a foreign country with no job and very little money...what about making a bit of soup would bring me to tears?
Well, let me tell you.
I heave my fevered self off the couch and make it all the way to the stove where I fill a pan with some left over onion soup. It goes on the burner. Perfect, just a little heating and I will be sipping the ultimate comfort food.
5 minutes later I taste a spoonful...ice cold. What the f$^@? No flame. No gas. The freakin' gas tank is empty.
Just a little explanation of cooking system in Casa Cornwell di Maberga. Ya know those gas tanks that can be found in a lot of people's backyards, you know, the one next to the BBQ grill? Yeah, that one, we have one of those in our kitchen, next to the stove. I suppose that is only slightly dangerous, since it clearly states on top of the tank "KEEP OUTSIDE AND AWAY FROM CHILDREN". But I don't want to give you the impression that we are playing with fire (no pun intended, 'specially since technically there would be no fire, just a big explosion), most people we know around here have the same set up.
So, once every4 to 6 months the gas tank runs out and needs to be replaced, sooner if you are drinking a lot coffee. This just so happened to occur the very evening I'm alone and knocked on my ass by a cold and want a bowl of soup.
I seriously consider heaving myself back to the couch and forgetting about the soup but then I realize I can't have any coffee without gas either. So instead of the couch I go to the patio on the side of the house (yes, we keep the non-connected tanks OUTside).
Ever lifted one of those gas tanks? Yeah, me neither. They are HEEEAAAA-VVVVVYYYY. I dragged, rolled and wrestled the beast down the side step, across the front patio, up the step into the house where I wedged a rug under it so I could slide it across the kitchen thus not leaving a big skid mark across the kitchen tile like I did on the cement outside.
Now, old tank gone, new tank in place. I'm so close to some soup.
I cut the yellow plastic cap off, use the wrench-key thingy to get the tube hooked up just like I was told. No problem. Now all I have to do is open the gas. I try the knob. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. I get close to the thing to make sure I'm doing lefty-loosy, not righty-tighty. Wait, I'm in Italy, maybe it's the opposite... destra-apri, sinistra-chiusi. Nope. The little arrows show me the way. Still nothing. It's just simply screwed on too tight for me. Like a jar of pickles.
This is where the tears came. I went to the couch, sobbed, called David so he could feel sorry for me.
Feeling a little embarrassed at not being able to help myself (and crying about it), I went back to the stove. It opened as easily as a jar of almost empty peanut butter.
I happily ate my soup and even pan-toasted a little bread too...just because I could.
I do have to admit there was a slightly anxiety filled moment just before I pushed the button that sparks the flame...