I’ll let you make up your own title on this one. Plath was the clinically depressed poet who stuck her head in an oven and died of carbon monoxide fumes, but had the good sense and forethought to seal up the walls, so that her nearby children should not perish in their rooms. Nice.
Still not a good case for electric, though.
This is such a fun scene, with three generations of folks, prepping dinner. The apron matches the curtains. Everyone is thin, skirted, and cheery. What more could you want? Other than a gas range.