Family Flame

Last summer my 5-year-old electric range went on the blink. Literally. Its control board blinked random numbers and letters, flashed the oven light off and on, and refused to respond to any sequence of keypad instructions, verbal pleading/swearing or threats of dismissal.

What is a serious home cook to do without a source of heat?

It occurred to me that my Polish immigrant grandmother, whom we called Busia, never had to worry about her source of kitchen heat. She prepared food every day with a big black wood-burning cook stove. Her seasoned hands would strike a match, lift the lid of the firebox, ignite its contents and replace the lid, all in one fluid motion. That big boy would start ticking, slowly bringing the room up to sauna warmth and the stovetop burners to sizzle status. 

Busia’s small kitchen was a place for paczki dough to rise and vegetable soup to simmer. There was no fear of flame or smoke, but instead there was respect for a powerful block of heat. She fed four children and an abusive husband during the Great Depression, without DoorDash or indoor plumbing. She spoke very little English, conveying her affection for me through her sweet smile and a few pennies from a chipped white coffee cup that stood on a high shelf by the back door.

Fortunately, the flame for cooking was passed down to my own mother. Mom’s 1960s-era shiny electric range, in our shiny remodeled kitchen with its shiny linoleum floor, was the heart of our small house. She taught my sister and me to cook, bake and make mistakes. I always thought she was the real Betty Crocker. We fried chicken, boiled noodles, canned dill pickles and occasionally burned cupcakes.

As a single girl in the 1980s, when the summer heat made it too hot to cook in my apartment kitchen, I cooked outside on the sidewalk using a little red hibachi. With some charcoal and a few shish kebabs on the grill, I felt uncharacteristically cool. Busia wouldn’t have understood what I was doing, and how would you pronounce hibachi in Polish anyway?

My own children explored the enchantment of flames early in their lives, being especially attracted to an outdoor fire pit, where they experimented with things that would burn (sticks, homework, candy bar wrappers) and things that wouldn’t (green grass, aluminum foil, silverware), with a few coat sleeves and boot soles getting singed in the process. S’mores were always secondary to the fun of watching a fire come to life.

During her summer break from college, my daughter was determined to make pancakes at home for my birthday breakfast, even with a stormy power outage. She dug out the old green camping stove and not only filled my belly but warmed my soul with her back porch flaming cafe.

My son recently invited me to a potluck at a friend's home, where a midcentury relic proudly stood at the ready. It looked strikingly like my mother's stove, and even with a few missing knobs, it was clearly up to the task of providing a cook's heat to some serious eaters. Exuberant conversation ensued, as we gathered around the kitchen island (of course) to discuss our places of origin, jobs and favorite foods. In a classic case of too many cooks in the kitchen, it took a while for someone to notice a cloud of rising smoke. A rhubarb dessert was seeping through its springform pan and turning to asphalt in the bottom of the oven. The smoke alarm came to life, the calm hostesses armed themselves with spatulas to scrape up the slime, while the dog sneezed repeatedly inside the screen door.

Busia's stove was so hefty that it seemed indestructible, as if it would last forever. I like to think my mother's electric stove is still being used, too. As for my blinking range, we have come to an understanding. I take my time selecting control buttons, giving the appliance time to THINK about what it needs to do, while I give it a quick Polish blessing, as Busia would’ve done. 

Ultimately, as long as the sauce thickens, the steaks sear, the pierogi plump and the cake bakes, it doesn’t matter what the heat source is. The true warmth of a meal comes from the heart of the cook.

Deborah Rieth writes from a Michigan small farm, where her soul is nourished by gardens, kitchens and words.