269. Practice run 4

The technique of the flambé has no secrets for me and I am well practiced at it. My skill at it has no match except for my husband's mastery of the BBQ. These fiery passions have been the cause of some spectacular moments that are in our family lore up there with the yellow Crocs and the bumper cars. So I was not surprised when my husband arrived and proudly showed me the neatly packed portable stove we would be taking with us for the TGA.

'Oil?' I said. 'As in petrol? The stuff we put in cars?'

'Exactly.' He sounded enthusiastic.

The enthusiasm was the worrying bit. He showed as much excitement as on the first BBQ of the season. I watched as he unpacked it and set it up. He poured the fuel into the stove using a small funnel and then stroke a match and whooooooooooosh. I stepped right back.

'Wow! Is that not a bit violent?'

This kind of implement might be useful to scare the lions away when camping in some remote savannah. As for cooking I had my doubts.

'Maybe a portable BBQ would be enough?'

'Oh yes, definitely. We'll take one of those along too.'

I wanted to ask if we had a fire extinguisher in the back of the adventure vehicle but he was too busy trying to control the flames - plural - they seem to dart all around the burner in totally unpredictable directions. 

'It's a bit tricky to adjust ...' He explained as he was twiddling the single control. I watched and reflected that if he had long hair it would be on fire by now. 

'You just need to get the hang of it.' 

I turned the thing off. Let's not waste any fuel. And we let it cool before packing it away again. The thing was working. That was the main thing.

The following day as we were off again to enjoy the great outdoors, one pyromaniac (me) said to an other (my husband):

'Let's take the stove with us and do some outdoor cooking this time. I'm sure you've got the hang of it by now.'

We need some kind of novelty on our every outing: from a midnight picnic on a dark and windy night when we nearly drove off the cliff into the sea to a drive through muddy fields experimenting with the 4-wheel drive on a rainy day when we almost got stuck in a rut, we now would add cooking our food on a petrol stove, last important step before the sleep-over.

The sky is bright blue, there is not a single cloud. The air is warm and buzzing with insects. The forest all quiet, no joggers, no cyclists, no trekkers, just us. My husband manœuvres the vehicle as if he were parallel parking in a busy street. Once he is satisfied he turns the engine off and we set up camp in a small clearing. The ground is a carpet of soft spongy soil covered with a layer of dry leaves and twigs of all sorts that cradle and snap under our feet. 

'Look!' I shout.

My husband turns towards me and in a grand gesture I throw a white table cloth up in the air, it billows in the soft breeze and lands softly on the small picnic table.

'Table cloth!' He says sounding quite appreciative.

'Yep. Real glasses, real plates, real cutlery. A real wicker basket. I had to have a white table cloth.'

We slide a board from the back of the vehicle and on this worktop I cut the tomatoes and the onions, pour the olive oil, add salt and pepper from the tiny cellars. My husband chops the garlic and the herbs. Now the moment we were both looking forward to has come. We leave the salad to the side and get the oil stove out. We take time to select the best place to set it up, make sure it is stable (I have located the fire extinguisher). My husband strikes a match and brings it close to the burner and .... Whoooooooooosh. This time we are in bright sunshine and the flames are mostly invisible. So my husband twiddles the small switch and whoooooooooooooosh again, this time the flame has briefly turned bright orange and is dangerously rising towards my husband's head!

'Hey! Watch out!' I make a move and lay my hand on the red object which could save my husband's life or at least save his hair. He moves his head back and turns the flame back down. I take my hand off the red thing.

'That was close!' I say.

I am thinking that this oil stove might not be a good solution for the pair of pyromaniacs loose in the woods at the height of summer. 

As if he's read my mind my husband says:

'I think a tour of Ireland as a practice run would be a good idea.'

Yes. A damp wet safe country.

The steak is perfect, the tomatoes salad too. Strawberries. Champagne. We use the flame thrower again to make coffee. No drama, we are getting the hang of this. Things are truly on their way.