The other day, the pilot light in my oven went out. I don’t cook, so this really doesn’t matter, but at that moment, I had this awesome bread pudding and whiskey sauce that needed to be heated up, so I had to find a way to remedy the situation.

So I opened the oven and crawled inside looking for the pilot light. I figured I’d flick my Bic and be done. This was a perfectly reasonable plan, but the problem was, I couldn’t find the damn pilot light.

I texted my friend who went to culinary school and should know her way around an oven to ask her where I could find it. She said she didn’t know, but that I should call the fire department, and the gas company, and Oprah for god’s sake, because I was probably going to explode into fiery flames at any moment if I...

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