Betty

An odd little post about Betty, er, Elizabeth.

I bought this lovely old cook-stove from an acquaintance who needed to downsize. I admit my heart fluttered and my brain, well, I vanished down the rabbit hole of childhood memories.

Memories. I grew up in a small town in the interior of British Columbia, Canada. My parents owned a summer cabin and at the end of the school year would stay until the end of August. Joyous, wondrous, childhood memories. I imagine I learned to walk about the same time I learned to swim. I digress. The stove.

Wood smoke. As a young child I remember the sound of my father waking and the grating sound as he moved the lid from the top of the cook-stove aside before striking the match to light the kindling in the firebox beneath. Crackling, then not a whooshing, but the sound of air moving as the flames picked up and drew the smoke up the chimney. He always brought my mother a cup of tea. Each morning I would climb out of bed and drink a quiet cup of tea beside him as the magic of the wood-stove took over and the cabin heated. Milky tea. I drink it to this day.

Bacon with rind on the griddle. Once removed, endless pancakes. Or, on other days, oatmeal. These things best cooked on a wood-stove. A magnificent creature, that stove. Blue and white, with a warming oven. My mother mastered baking bread and cakes in the temperamental oven and canning cherries, peaches, pears during the summer until one fated day, electricity arrived. My mother and her capabilities. The extraordinary heat from a wood-stove in summer. Some things however, never changed. The kettle boiled on the wood-stove. Breakfasts cooked on the wood-stove.

Elizabeth – Betty, I bought her. She weighs a ton. It took two strapping young guys to move her from the truck into the house. They cussed the whole way. Once in place, they admired her.

Not WETT certified, which means she can’t be connected inside the house, but she can be used outside if one day I build a summer kitchen.

For the moment, my baked bean pot, bread-bowl and old scale sit on top. I store platters and dishes in the warming oven and cast iron pans wait to be used on the cook-top. The milking equipment dries on a wonky rack.

Please, meet Betty. A beautiful old gal.

Do you have an old childhood memory like this? If so, please share!

Warmly,

Brin