From Boat Ramps to Bread Ovens: A Percentile Philosophy
A couple of years ago, our life revolved around boating adventures. I was the navigator, the trailer-back-upper, and, apparently, the family’s resident magician when it came to backing the boat down ramps without making it look like an amateur YouTube blooper. Dana, ever the cheerleader, once praised me for my flawless execution, to which I replied with my secret formula: 30% knowledge and 70% “hold my beer.”
Her face was a mixture of amusement and horror. She realized that my success was less about expertise and more about “winging it with flair.” Since then, every project in our life is scored on this very scientific scale.
So, when we decided to relocate a wood-burning bread oven—a quarter-ton behemoth—into our newly renovated kitchen, I knew we were diving into a 15% knowledge, 85% hold my beer scenario. For example, I have never lived in a cold state—I’ve always called the tropics home. My idea of heating a home? Opening a window. The only times I’ve encountered cold weather have been on vacations, and even then, I never gave much thought to the dynamics of heating.
Now, here we were, tackling a project that involved not just baking bread but also figuring out how to heat a room with something other than sunshine and wishful thinking. Welcome to Part 2 of The Bread Oven Saga.
Disassembling, Reassembling, and (Hopefully) Not Dismembering
In case you missed Part 1, let me catch you up: we disassembled a bread oven, lugged it up three flights of stairs, and reassembled it in the kitchen. Sounds simple? Ha.
What we didn’t anticipate was the small problem of needing to lift this 500-pound monstrosity 36 inches off the ground and slide it perfectly into a metal frame embedded in the wall. Did I mention this kitchen is on the third floor? It’s like asking someone to parallel park a tank inside a dollhouse. But hey, I’ve got my percentages to lean on.
The Blue Monster Arrives
While brainstorming solutions back in the States, I scoured the internet for anything that could lift, slide, and not kill us in the process. Enter: the Blue Monster—a lifting device so heavy and unwieldy it needed its own shipping strategy.
Cue our Italian neighbor, who graciously agreed to receive the delivery. When the camera feed showed him and his wife wrestling it into our grotto, I felt a pang of guilt. By the time we returned to Italy, the Blue Monster was waiting like an impatient, steel guardian.
Upstairs, We Go! (Eventually)
Half a day and several creative curse words later, Dana and I had muscled the Blue Monster up to the second floor. With a mix of cargo ratchets, wooden planks, and what I like to call gravity-defying optimism, we maneuvered it into the house. However, the kitchen window presented a whole new level of logistical gymnastics.
A hand hoist seemed like the perfect solution—until I realized I needed a special tool to disassemble parts of the Blue Monster. Back to the hardware store I went, where I found a single tool that looked like it had been waiting since the Nixon administration for someone to buy it.
Into the Kitchen and Out of Our Minds
Piece by piece, we hauled the Blue Monster up to the kitchen, reassembled it, and prepared for the final push—literally. With jacks, ratchets, and Dana acting as our resident safety officer (she now calls herself OCHA, or Occupational Chaos and Hazard Administration), we lifted the oven onto the Blue Monster.
Sliding it into the wall frame? That was another beast altogether. Inch by agonizing inch, we nudged the oven into place, using wood blocks, random tools, and sheer willpower. Every so often, Dana would peek around the corner and say, “It’s not centered,” to which I replied, “Neither is my sanity right now.”
The Crawl Space Olympics
Success! The oven was finally in the wall, but the job wasn’t over. Now I had to crawl underneath and behind it to connect the vents to the outside. Armed with a light, a ladder, and an assortment of hand tools, I made what felt like 100 trips in and out of that tight space. It was a game of contortionist meets plumber, with a touch of why did I agree to this?
Every time I thought I had the connections right, something would misalign. Dana stood by offering “encouragement” that sounded suspiciously like stifled laughter, but I soldiered on. After what felt like an eternity, the vents were in place, and I emerged from the crawl space looking like I’d been spelunking in a coal mine.
Coffee Break: The Most Italian Detour
Just as we were starting to make progress, our neighbor popped by to invite us over for coffee. Now, let me paint the scene: I’m covered in dust, sweat streaks running down my face, and looking like I just wrestled a wild boar in a sawmill. Declining seemed logical—until I remembered this is Italy, where turning down coffee is like insulting someone’s grandmother. A serious no-go.
After a quick change of clothes (and a half-hearted dust-off that somehow made me look worse), we headed over for what turned into a mini coffee party. The neighbors talked a mile a minute while Dana and I nodded enthusiastically, communicating in what felt like a mix of silent film gestures and interpretive dance. If you’ve ever seen someone try to mime “we just installed half a chimney,” you’ll know the struggle.
Once sufficiently caffeinated—and a little more fluent in “neighborhood charades”—we returned to our project with renewed vigor and an impressive amount of leftover biscotti crumbs stuck in Dana’s pocket.
The Roof, The Vent, and Dana’s Latest Nickname
With the oven in place, it was time to finish the outside vents. This involved climbing onto a precarious roof ledge while Dana devised a safety harness system that looked suspiciously like an escape plan for a spy movie.
I drilled anchors into the wall while Dana shouted directions like, “Don’t fall!” as if I hadn’t considered that option. With the final vent pieces secured, we stood back and admired our work. Dana beamed and christened herself OCHA, an acronym that somehow fits her bossy-yet-brilliant project management style.
Lighting the Stuffa: A Moment of Triumph
Finally, it was time to light the stuffa (wood-burning oven) for the first time. As the fire roared to life, so did our sense of accomplishment. Sure, the wall still bore battle scars from the installation, but those would be addressed in Part 3. For now, we basked in the glow of success—and the warmth of our new oven.
Epilogue: The Blue Monster’s Inevitable Farewell
Of course, the Blue Monster still sits in the kitchen, taking up valuable space. Dismantling it and hauling it back down to the grotto will be the subject of a future adventure. But for now, we’re celebrating a hard-won victory.
As for the 15% knowledge and 85% hold-my-beer ratio? It holds steady. But hey, we’ve got a working oven, a story to tell, and enough espresso to fuel the next chapter.
Stay tuned for Part 3, where we tackle the wall finish and finally say goodbye to the Blue Monster. Until then, may your percentages always lean slightly toward hold my beer.