A Memory of a Farmhouse

It took a brave heart to attempt culinary endeavors in the small farmhouse kitchen.

It wasn’t just because there was only about four feet of 1940’s linoleum covered countertops or a giant, single chipped-up porcelain sink.

It wasn’t just because there were only six cupboards in the room or because the four drawers sticked unmercilessly requiring herculean strength to open.

And it certainly wasn’t just because the two exposed outlets would short circuit amidst a shower of festive sparks each time you tried using something more powerful than a pathetic hand mixer.

The brave heart was required because of the old gas range left in the kitchen when we bought the house.

When I first laid eyes on it, I was enchanted. Sure, the white enameled surface was chipped and scratched. Sure, the biggest oven box was the size of a large casserole dish.

(Trust me. This is not a picture of my old stove. It looked a bit like this but in much, much worse shape!)

But it was cool. And old. And I pictured myself wearing an apron and taking hearty old fashioned dishes from the black speckled interior.

My then husband, a man always motivated by massive quantities of home-cooked food, told me he would remodel the kitchen right away.

“Sure, go ahead,” I said, “But I want to keep the old stove, just leave it alone.”

He raised his eyebrows at me, but agreed.

The first week of cooking I learned that lighting stove-top pilot lights every single time you wanted to cook is a bit annoying. And a little frightening. When the tiny little flame from the match came in contact with the gas, the subsequent ‘whoosh’ and excited flames always made me jump back. I also quickly learned that when you re-lit the pilot lights inside the small ovens, you needed to duck and jump back simultaneously to avoid hitting your head and/or catching your hair on fire.


I perservered, though. Did I tell you that the range was cool. And old. And I pictured myself wearing an apron and taking hearty old fashioned dishes from the black speckled interior.

The range remained old, but rapidly became less cool as I learned that old gas ranges are not super reliable and that oven temperatures are usually more of a suggestion than a reality.

I persevered, though. I still pictured myself wearing an apron and taking hearty NON BURNT old-fashioned dishes from the black speckled interior.

I persevered right up until the day I forgot to duck my head and jump back simultaneously when I lit the bottom oven pilot light.

A goose egg on the top of my head and burned off bangs, eyebrows and eyelashes finally convinced me that having an old gas range that didn’t work right was most definitely NOT cool. And I finally figured out I could still wear an apron and take hearty old-fashioned dishes from the interior of a nice, newer gas range.

When I think back on my years on the old farmstead I remember so much of it fondly.

However, the eccentricities of a cool, old gas range in my decrepit little kitchen are not among those memories that I hold most dear.


This little memory is written in honor of the letter “K” for Alphabe-Thursday. K is for Kitchen!


To read other 'K' offerings, just click here.