January in December

It’s January in December in central Virginia. Mornings in the 20s, daytime highs in the 30s, nighttime lows in the teens. We’ve already had a sprinkling of snow. It’s time to fire up the kerosene stove.

Of course, my house does have central heat. But I like to turn the thermostat down somewhat and have a nice, comfortable hot spot in one room to keep me warm. The kerosene stove emits a soft, rosy glow that not only keeps me warm but is also soothing, like a fireplace. An electric space heater puts out heat, too, but compared to a kerosene stove, an electric heater is soulless. There is something different about heating with a kerosene stove. It burns fuel, it converts that fuel to heat and light right in front of you, just as a fireplace does. You can see combustion at work; it has a soul of fire. And if you maintain the wick and adjust the flame properly, there is no odor. At least, not until you turn it off. Then, it’s best to put it outside for a few minutes.

The kerosene stove’s chimney glows rosy red with heat. A curved reflector behind the chimney stretches its reflection like a carnival fun-house mirror.

 

When I was a youngster delivering the morning newspaper, I often stopped by my grandmother’s house for breakfast after I finished my deliveries and was on my way home. She knew just what I wanted for breakfast on a winter’s morning; she always cooked a stack of pancakes for me. And when I say “stack”, I mean it; she always cooked 12 to 14 pancakes for my breakfast. (I was thin then and never gained weight from eating all those pancakes.) She seemed to enjoy my morning visits, and she seemed to enjoy cooking those pancakes for me almost as much as I enjoyed eating them. My grandmother’s little bungalow was heated by a floor furnace, and while she busied herself in the kitchen I would pull my chair right up to the edge of the furnace and let the hot air blow over me. I found it so soothing and relaxing it was almost addictive. And though it was hard for me to stand up and leave that soothing flow of warm air, a plate of warm pancakes with butter and maple syrup made the separation easier to bear.

I haven’t eaten a pancake in years. I still love them, I just don’t dare eat them; I think I’ve gained a pound or two just by writing about them. But, thankfully, a warm stove is still calorie-free.