Tonight Chris made a fire in the stove outside and set up our little cafe table and chairs for dinner. Sometimes I feel like we should either be living in a yurt or a trailer
The stove is a story in itself. So here goes.
Two winters ago Chris got all hot and bothered about getting a wood stove for our livingroom. It isn't heated by anything except huge south-facing windows and the warmth coming through the floor from downstairs, so it seemed like a good idea. This may have also happened shortly after the storm that knocked down heaps of trees and left us without power for 24 hours (we were the lucky ones). Fond memories of huddling around the fondue pot.
So he goes on ebay and finds the stove I am least aesthetically opposed to. Not that it isn't ugly. It's just charmingly ugly in a way that reminds me of a Phantom Tollbooth drawing. He wins the bid and we pile the kids in the car and drive to New Hampshire.
When we get it home (all 9 billion pounds of it), we discover that it is not something-something listed and therefore we will have to install it squarely in the middle of our smallish livingroom in order to comply with code. I am not okay with this.
So in the driveway it sits, unused. And then one day, when we were trying to throw a surprise birthday beach bash for a friend, it was pressed into service. The evening of the party was drizzly and I, throwing up my hands, said "fine, we'll have it here." I even cleaned my bathroom.
One friend came over and hung a huge blue tarp between some trees. Voilà - a porch. Another friend brought a grill. The only thing we were missing was a beach fire to roast our marshmallows over.
Thank God for the woodstove.
So tonight we sat around in the extra hour of daylight and were grateful that all the food our children spilled will perhaps be eaten by wildlife. We smell like woodsmoke, which makes us seem vaguely exotic. And we enjoyed the centerpiece of nearly dead crocuses Lucy picked today and submerged in a jelly jar.
Dinner: Indian Style Black Bean Burritos