I LIVE WITH A COOKSTOVE AND LOVE IT

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Theo built a fire and I transferred supper from the electric range to the wood burner. Then, as the new stove got hot, smoke began seeping out of every nook and cranny and rose in sheets off its top. The thick haze filled the kitchen and quickly forced us—coughing and sputtering—to open every available window and door (in January, yet). The condition was temporary, however, and only lasted a few minutes until the "new" wore off. We soon had the house buttoned up again and I eagerly looked forward to fathoming the mysteries of the wood-burning cookstove.

STARTING THE FIRE

Since I grew up without the privilege of brothers and the knowledge bestowed on very young ladies by that fine organization known as The Girl Scouts, I knew absolutely zero about starting a fire. I had halfheartedly watched my husband and sons build a blaze in our fireplace . . . but never with the interest needed to really learn how and the first time I faced the ordeal of firing up my new stove unassisted, I nearly panicked.

On that wretched day I burned three Sunday editions of the paper and a whole log of rich pine and—an hour later—all I had to show was a lot of filmy ashes floating about, a streak of soot across my face and a stove that was still as cold as a wedge (in this case, a wedge of ice).

It was thus that Theo found me when he came home weary from the field for his supper. In my romantic imagination, I had planned to quote from Oliver Goldsmith's The Traveller, this beautiful little verse:

At night returning, every labour sped
He sits him down the monarch of a shed
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board.

Well, the only part that now applied was the cleanly platter. It was clean indeed and there was no fire, cheerful or otherwise. I suppose the one thing which saved his lov'd partner from rebuke was the wretched look on her soot-streaked face. Theo's only comment, in a very sober voice, was: "Is there any kindling left?"

With those not-kind-but-not-scolding words, I fled to the wood shed and scraped up a few chips. In no time at all, Theo had a cheerful fire spittin' and poppin'. It just made me sick.

After what seemed an eternity, I finally got the hang of it. Now, I only need a tiny bit of kindling or dry blocks and a sheet of newspaper to start a roaring blaze. Here's how I do it:

It's all-important that you don't let your stove's ash container get too full. This is because the ash box is usually so close to the fire box that, full, it can cut off the oxygen needed to make a fire "draw". I empty the ashes from my stove about twice a week. Since hot ashes always contain sparks that can ignite in the slightest wind, this job should be done in the morning, before a fire is built.

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