I LIVE WITH A COOKSTOVE AND LOVE IT

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CLEANING THE STOVE

The cleaning of a wood-burning stove involves very little effort. If you spill grease or food on it, the spill burns right off. I keep a bundle of newspapers handy and after each meal, I wipe my cookstove vigorously with a wadded sheet. Then, once every two weeks or so, I "black" the stove.

Blacking consists of dipping a limber paint brush (39¢) into the stove polish or blacking (49¢ a bottle and enough for three applications) and painting it on. The process gives a newness to the stove and makes it look pretty . . . also keeps it from rusting, I understand.

I then wipe the white part of the cookstove until it's shiny clean with my dish towel. Now and then I also wipe out the oven with a damp towel and scrape away any spills.

Once or twice a year I take all the burners off the top and clean out the soot and ashes that have blown between the oven and the burners. This collection doesn't interfere with the stove's performance but cleaning it out makes me feel as good as when I move the refrigerator to sweep and mop away a year's collection of dust.

I am no slave to housework, so I really enjoy the easy care of my wood-burning range.

SECOND THOUGHTS

One of my glutton-for-gloom friends said I'd change my mind about the cookstove after one good, hot summer. I gave this a lot of thought before we bought the range and frequently considered how our grandmothers—attired in their several long skirts, with cheeks ablazin' and hearts asingin'—worked diligently in all kinds of weather and prepared menus fit for any old king on an iron stove. I couldn't believe summer cooking would be such an ordeal.

And it isn't. At this writing I've just finished the second hot summer with my wood stove and I wouldn't go "back" to the modern method under any circumstances.

Although the question of summer cooking hadn't bothered me, I did have one concern about the stove: I didn't want it to be a traumatic experience for Bonnie since—even before the cookstove arrived—it had seemed to highly embarrass her. She had, in fact, detested even the thought of the range and hoped to the last minute I'd "come to my senses" and not bring that monstrosity into our pretty, sunny kitchen.

I think somewhere in her young, sensitive mind, she associated the wood-burning stove with deprivation . . . or maybe she didn't know how she would explain my actions to her peers.

Then, as if by a miracle, the boy she was dating came early one evening and watched as I fried chicken (we eat a lot of chicken). We chatted while he waited for Bonnie and—although he said not a word about the stove—he sure eyeballed it.

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