There is a beast in my home. It fumes, sputters, creaks and groans. Vapor rises from the plate atop its head, and it has an insatiable appetite for dried plants. Its surface is too hot to touch, and it requires daily cleaning.
This beast, if you have figured it out (and I hope you have, since I am not very good at being subtle), is a wood burning stove.
After researching the telltale signs of creosote buildup, and climbing up onto the roof a half dozen times and shoving my head inside the chimney, I have fired up the faithful old beast. The house used to be warmed (briefly and inefficiently) by forced heated air. After watching the oil level in the big steel drum in the basement fall steadily, and, rather than spend money on buying more fuel, I risked the chance of a chimney fire and fired up the beast.
The tally of mummified animals at the base of the chimney - four. One partially decomposed rat and three fully decomposed blackbirds. The byproduct of their decomposition had piled up to a stately six inches, a soft, fluffy material resembling insulation. For lack of a proper place to store this curious and painfully slow experiment in mummification, I have placed it in the wastebasket.
For anyone seeking a warm, crackling hearth and pleasant companionship (I will be away for the next few days but some very nice people are stopping by later), do feel free to pay a visit.
from the Bamboo Bowl,
many affectionate greetings. JP
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