Burgers and Fries and Cherry Pies
After a few days of sitting in the living room, our new stove is finally in place. It looks … interesting. The old range was white, as was the old refrigerator. The new appliances are both black and stainless steel, but since they’re not made by the same company, each is its own shade of silver. On top of the slight color difference, the handles don’t match. It doesn’t matter since the fridge will be coming with us, but it looks a bit silly. However, the most important parts are all fantastic. The oven turns on and back off again the very first time you tell it to do so. This…
Tally Me Banana
Note: Please excuse this awful photo full of darkness and overexposures. The lighting in this refrigerator is straight out of Saw. Right now our new refrigerator is sitting in the kitchen, properly blocking access to the kettle I use to make my fancy instant coffee every morning (a relatively new habit). It’s resting upright, as instructed, for six hours, before we will move it into place and throw the old one into the Goat Shed. It’s taken quite some time to finally get the refrigerator here, but now that it’s arrived, I’m extremely excited. There are still some feelings of trepidation since the fridge remains encased in its dirty cardboard shipping…
And May You Need Never to Banish Misfortune
Things are troublesome here at the moment. When I wrote the mini bio for this blog I said, “the hovel I call home,” but hovel was written about 60% in jest. A hovel is defined, according to dictionary.com, as “a small, very humble dwelling house; a wretched hut.” Originally, I was hinting at the humble dwelling portion of that definition, now we’re approaching the wretched hut portion. Our bedroom floor has collapsed. I can’t believe I have had to write that sentence. Now, to avoid giving the wrong impression, our bedroom floor isn’t caved in with all the contents in a heap down a giant crack through the room. There…
A Cold Wind’s Whispering Secrets in Your Ear
In every state I’ve lived in, someone has used the line “If you don’t like the weather here, give it ten minutes and it’ll change,” but never has that been more accurate than my time here in Montana. Last Saturday we had our windows open, enjoying the mid-sixty breezes that brought the smell of crunchy fallen leaves and wood smoke drifting through the house. By Sunday night we had the heater cranked up to counter the drop to single digits and snow was whipping furiously in every direction. In our tiny Connecticut cabin, we had a monstrous wood-stove we relied on for all our heat. There were a few baseboard…
