Humour on the page: The gas burners begin to malfunction just when the guests are on their way

“Our guests are expected in a week and the gas burners are beginning to play up,” I grumbled.

“So what’s new?” my husband asked. “Isn’t that a regular phenomenon? It’s not just when we have guests. They are at it all the time.”

He was right. All the burners of the gas stove, whether you have just two or the luxury of four, seldom work well at the same time – golden gas rule. I love my black glass-topped gas stove with three burners, acquired after an impassioned declamation built around the vagaries of gas burners.

“Deadly timing,” I persisted in my contention that the burners go on French leave when I need them most.

Never given to superstition, he looked sceptical at my illogical arguments and delivered a counter-lecture citing commonsensical reasons why burners cease to work efficiently when treated with scant respect. “For example,” he said, employing his favourite explicatory expression, “they won’t function if clogged.”

His contention was simple. “You and the help are careless when you cook, allowing milk, rice or lentils to boil over. No use wiping the burners clean, the damage is done. Then again …”

He gave more examples and ended with a pleased, “Have I ever allowed anything to boil over?”

“Never!” I agreed, adding, “because you don’t cook.”

Gas stove manuals claim that the user can control the heat immediately after turning on the burner, and can turn the flame up as high or as low as required. All gas! We users know better who controls the heat – the idiosyncratic stove, of course – and, acting on its whims, decides whether the flame should be high or low.

Soon one burner went on a lightning strike, but burners have a mysterious way of reviving on their own, and sure enough the faulty one soon returned to top shape only to have another one conk out. That was when a lady from the gas agency came for an inspection.

She marched into the kitchen, took the lighter, clicked it once and tossed it aside. “Doesn’t work.” I gave her a matchbox. She lit the burners expertly with a single match and her face lit up when she saw one burning low. “Needs cleaning.” She noticed flames fluttering like a wind-tossed mini skirt just below the burner and pronounced with authority, “That one should be changed.” Patting the glass top, she added, “But this model is no longer available, so you won’t get spare parts. For now, I’ll clean the burners.”

A mug filled with soapy water was provided. She flung the burner tops in and jerked the stove up to examine the tube like a weightlifter attempting an effortless snatch. She declared it was cracked, plonked the stove down and, before striding out, had sold us a tube, a lighter, a multi-purpose cleaning brush and the idea that we needed a new stove.

“Look at that!” my husband fumed, checking the burners once we had broken free from her spell. Now the flames were low in all three. “What has she done? The stove is quite new. I think we should get an expert, a proper expert, to clean it.”

The proper expert came, dismantled the stove, cleaned every part thoroughly and, as he “mantled” it, laid all the blame on ants. “It’s ants more than food particles. They get into the holes in the burners.” Though glad to be absolved of blame for clogging the pores, I was troubled by his verdict. “Why would ants do that when there are more accessible places to go sightseeing or foraging? Are they mad?” I asked.

He wasn’t keen on philosophising about the mental aberrations of ants. I protested there weren’t any ants around. “There!” he pointed. “Where?” I asked. “Wear your glasses,” said my husband who has this wonderful knack for appearing at all the wrong times. I obeyed and spotted a row of microscopic specimens against the wall behind the stove, scurrying away as if they didn’t like being talked about behind their backs. “Why do ants keep plaguing me?” I asked. No one bothered to reply.

I told my help about this new theory and she looked pleased. “Aha, maybe the ants get trapped, burn, crumble and disappear to wherever,” she enthused, sketching a horror film scene. “And that’s how the burners start working again. So …”

“… we must keep using malfunctioning burners so that they get working at some point,” I ended.

The burners took turns at playing hooky, but with just two days to go for the visit, all three, sensing it was time to show their quirkiness, decided to pack up. “Food tastes best when cooked over a woodfire stove,” my husband declared, while I stared at him in dismay. “The old, traditional way yields the best results. Why, you can start cooking right away. What’s a fridge for, anyway? And a microwave? Our guests are going to love the special taste for sure.”

“The smoky taste, you mean,” I sniffed. “It’s been raining and the wood in the shed will be wet.” The help, who had been listening keenly to this exchange, began to cook up excuses for a day off when my mobile rang. It was our friend, calling to say she was very sorry, but they had to cancel the trip due to a medical emergency.

“Oh, that’s terrif … I mean, terrible,” I responded, heaving a silent sigh of relief

Excerpted with permission from Happy Go Funny: The Lighter Moments of Life, Khyrunnisa A, Westland.