Solution!

Just call me MacGyver.

Last week, work was just painful, but Thursday was the worst. It dragged. And dragged. And the only thing that kept me going was the little recipe I had concocted in my head. Well, that and the TWOP recaps of "Ugly Betty." Sweet Moses, that show is hilarious.

I couldn't wait to get home and make my planned dinner - a mini homemade pizza on soy pita bread. It was going to be glorious: olive oil, grape tomatoes, shallots, fresh mozzarella, and fresh basil.

(Can we just talk a bit about how much I love fresh mozzarella? It is one of the few cheese varieties that doesn't send me to bed early with stomach cramps. And calcium! Yay!)

I preheated the oven, drizzled some olive oil on the pita, and tossed it in the oven to crisp up a little. I chopped veggies, sliced the mozzarella, tore the basil, and went to check on the pita.

Nothing. No heat. No toasty pita goodness.

Huh?

Now, I am lucky enough to have a lovely gas stove. When apartment searching a few months ago, I distinctly recall telling Jen that I had one demand, and one only: a gas stove. You wanna-be chefs know how it is - electric stoves suck!

I no suck.

I was also lucky to grow up with a gas stove and learned their inner machinations early on. I can re-light a pilot light with the best of 'em. Well, pilot lights for the burners.

I knew that the pilot light in the oven was out and that deadly gas was filling the kitchen with each second! Time was an issue! I was hungry, dammit!

Problem was, the pilot light for the oven was way in the back. On the bottom. My arms? Like T-Rex.

Rawr!

I didn't want to singe my arm off, but had no way to recreate the wire match holders that The Lady always used to light candles and pilot lights.

Or had I?

Yes, that's a match taped to a piece of linguine.

(It worked, by the way. My pizza was glorious.)