Imagine this: It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The Huber family decides to christen their new grill. Mr. Huber, proud as a peacock, has already lit the coals. Mrs. Huber brings the salad, and the children are playing a peaceful game of tag. Suddenly, a light breeze, a brief spark – and the flames are dancing merrily in the garden bed. The brand-new grill, carefully chosen and dearly paid for, is now history. But that's not all. The freshly painted garden shed has a new, "rustic" look, and the lovingly tended cherry tree, in the family for generations, looks as if it's taken a spontaneous dip in a volcano.

Mr. Huber, no longer proud as a peacock but rather pale as a ghost, tries to salvage the situation. He runs back and forth with a bucket of water, while Mrs. Huber desperately tries to reach the fire department, which is apparently busy rescuing cats from trees on this Sunday. The children, who were just moments ago peacefully playing tag, quickly grasp the situation and are now trying to contain the disaster, armed with garden hoses. The result: a wet mess, a half-burned garden shed, and a cherry tree that now resembles an abstract artificial tree.

When the fire department finally arrives, the ordeal is almost over. But the Hubers are left with a pile of rubble – or rather, a pile of ashes. Now the real battle begins: settling the claim. Mr. Huber tries to report the damage to his insurance company. But the questions are complex, the forms endless, and the woman on the phone seems to think that a barbecue fire is an everyday picnic. He spends hours taking photos, searching for receipts, and trying to remember every single spark. In the end, he feels as if he's not only survived a garden fire but also completed a law degree. The insurance company finally offers him an amount that barely covers the cost of disposing of the ashes.