The
woodstove might be messy, but so was Aunt May’s kitchen—and that
was magic.
I posted a comment on a
friend’s blog recently about how much I love my wood stove. That
one little comment turned into a rabbit hole of memories and
musings—and before I knew it, I was sitting there smiling at the
flames, thinking: Yeah,
it’s a mess. And I love it anyway.
Last year, we thought about
getting one of those big fancy outdoor wood furnaces. You know, the
kind that keeps all the bark, dust, and chaos out in the yard where
it “belongs.” Tempting, sure. But in the end, we stayed loyal to
our old wood stove, sitting right there in the heart of the house
like it owns the place. And honestly? I’m so glad we did.
I love the smell of the fire
the moment I come in from the cold—the smoky sweetness that wraps
around you like a hug, instantly making you feel loved and safe. I
love the heat that seeps into your bones, not just your skin. You
don't just feel
warm, you become
warm. It’s a whole-body, whole-heart kind of heat.
And there’s something to be
said for the little rituals. Tossing on another log when the chill
creeps in. Scooting your chair an inch closer—or finding you're an
inch too close and realizing you're medium-well on the backside.
Cooking stew on the top of the stove like you’re auditioning for a
Laura Ingalls reboot. Moving your cup of cocoa just enough to catch
the firelight.
I love that the rest of the
house stays cooler—it’s like living in climate zones. The great
room is “Florida,” the kitchen is “upstate New York,” and the
mudroom? That’s “Arctic expedition base camp.” You learn to
dress accordingly.
But mostly, I love what it
reminds
me of.
When I was a little girl,
visits to Aunt May’s farm were the highlight of winter (and summer
too). She had one of those big black cast iron cookstoves in the
kitchen—half appliance, half altar. That thing didn’t just cook
food. It performed miracles. She’d have it fired up and ready if
she knew I was coming. French toast cooked right on the stovetop,
donuts fried in a big pan of lard until the whole kitchen smelled
like joy, and bread—oh, the bread—that
filled the air with a scent that made you feel that everything was
right in the world.
Aunt May wasn’t just an aunt
in the usual sense. My mother’s mother passed away when my mom was
only nine, and it was Aunt May—her mother’s sister—who stepped
in and raised her from then on. So for me, Aunt May felt more like a
grandmother. The kind of woman who knew how to hold a family together
with pie crusts, wood heat, and quiet, steady love.
Her kitchen wasn’t perfect,
and that made it perfect.
It was an old farmhouse, the kind that had settled in places, like
old houses (and old people) tend to do. Right smack under the middle
of the kitchen floor was a great big beam, and as the years wore on
and the house sagged gently around it, it formed a hump that ran the
length of the room like a little Appalachian ridge.
To most grown-ups, it was
probably a nuisance. To me? It was a racetrack. I had a little pedal
car and would spend hours pedaling up one side of that hump and
coasting down the other like I was Evel Knievel conquering the
kitchen range. That wooden hill had more thrill in it than any
amusement park ride. I’m sure that hump wasn’t quite
as big as I remember, but then, everything is big to a child.
Later, when the farmhouse was
sold, the new owners "fixed" the floor and leveled it out.
Took that hump right out, like it had been a flaw. But to me, they
ruined the house. That hump belonged
there. It told a story. It had
mileage
and memories and
the kind of charm you can’t order out of a catalog.
Now, when I sit by our stove
with a book in my lap and hot chocolate in hand, I watch the
flickering reflections dance across the room and think: Aunt
May would approve.
Not just of the fire, but of the bumps, the quirks, the things that
settle and sag and stay a little uneven—but still warm you just the
same.
Sure, heating with wood is a
mess. There’s always a trail of sawdust and bits of bark across the
floor, and it takes a lot of work—splitting, stacking, hauling,
sweeping. But to me, it’s worth every dusty corner and extra load
of laundry.
Because sometimes, the old
ways don’t need improving. They just need remembering.
P.S.
I still miss that pedal car. Not that I could fit in it anymore—but
if I could, you’d better believe I’d be tearing up the kitchen
hump all over again.
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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm
