It may not look like much, but believe me, my oven is quite a character with quite a history. Some friends of ours bought it for us way back when we still lived in America and way back when I thought cooking from scratch was heating up a frozen lasagna from Wal-Mart.
It’s a special oven, in that it uses gas and has a gas-ignited pilot light. I didn’t even know what all those words meant back when we stuck it in a crate heading to Indonesia. All I knew is that some MAF missionaries told me you couldn’t buy ovens here, and to make sure and find one that uses no electricity and wait, what? No electricity? Yeah, that really scared me way back then when I was convinced I’d never make it over here.
It worked. I rejoiced. Our family ate well. And then…
My oven stopped working again. Then started. Then stopped, then started, then stopped once and for all. Eight months later and a replacement part for the replacement part sent in a package, and wah lah. I got what I wanted for Christmas.
But by then, I’d learned to make many stove-top (which still worked) variations of basic meals—pizza, lasagna, sugar cookies. None of it was pretty. But I like to say my cooking, like most things I do, is done with a lot of heart.
And sweat.
And sometimes tears.
And a pinch of “making it.”
