And if I gained a great deal of satisfaction from heating the cabin with wood, it was nothing compared to pleasure I gained from cooking with it. The first thing I became aware of was the convenience of having a constantly hot surface available, the true beauty of which was that by moving containers around the stove’s surface there was everything available from temperatures hot enough to boil water and sear a steak to simmer or simply keeping a pot of tea or coffee at just the ideal temperature ready for the drinking. And there’s no need for a microwave when there’s a warming oven half a metre above the cooking surface perfect for thawing frozen ingredients, keeping cooked dishes at just the right temperature while the rest was cooking or even aiding the dough for a loaf or two of bread to rise. And the oven, ah yes, the oven, which provided the most challenging aspect of cooking with this appliance. Maintaining an even temperature, especially for baking bread and muffins, or lengthy chores like roasting a fifteen pound turkey was not always the easiest of tasks. There was a thermometer on the front of the oven door but I was never entirely certain of its accuracy.
This all made cooking on the stove a sheer delight. Again, it was the challenge of it all. And just as I always had to bring an awareness to the use of my electricity so too was it the case with the stove. All of this contributed to my success in living in the moment.
An unanticipated pleasure derived from cooking with the stove was a result of my many guests for whom I derived great satisfaction in preparing meals and other items. Beef bourguignon soon became a favourite with visitors. I was always sure to make more than enough for one meal so that over the next day or two, or even three, the leftovers could be supplemented with new ingredients. And it just got better and better as the days passed. Of course the pot sat on the stove the entire time the rising vapours permeating the air of the cabin with the most delicious of scents.
I also enjoyed getting up before my guests to bake fresh muffins, peach were always a hit, served in bed, piping hot, slathered in butter and with freshly brewed coffee. There were also those rare occasions when I was able to offer my guests food which I had gathered myself, berries, puffballs, wild leeks and, of course, the ultimate, morels.
I have already gone on at length about the ultimate cooking experience of baking bread but I never did that when I had guests. First of all, it was too time consuming but more importantly, it had become a ritual, almost sacred in nature, which, done in the presence of others, would have detracted from the whole experience. This simply meant that, when time and circumstance permitted, I would make every attempt to have a couple of loaves on hand when people arrived for a visit because, even though I preferred doing the baking on my own, it gave me great pleasure to serve up bread I’d baked with my own two hands on my cherished wood stove.
