WHEN MY HUSBAND first mentions induction, I misunderstand him.
“Induction?” I ask. He is sautéing onions, the kitchen is steamy with smoke, and I am coughing. But, to be fair, I am also six months pregnant, and the only induction on my mind is how this baby, now heavy on my ribs, is coming out. He points at the smoky room and the sizzling cast-iron pan and I realize he means our stove, a mammoth thing that I clean painstakingly. Most nights, I take off the grates and scrub the burners of stray eggs and oil that have splashed out with his exuberant stirring.
“No way,” I say, “I love this stove. Food tastes better with gas!” And then I tell him that to make chapatis or fry pappadums,
