In the house where I spent my first ten years, there was a big stove and oven contraption set into the wall of the kitchen. The behemoth was surrounded by terracotta tiles, Tuscan floral reliefs that only the seventies could produce. It was a suburban fantasy that any housewife would cry before. The stove, in its cave of orange sunflowers, had little red lights near the knobs of each of the burners to tell when they were hot, as most stoves do. My first experience of being burned came as a result of this.