Yup, I Know It Makes A Mess

The woodstove might be messy, but so was Aunt May’s kitchen—and that was magic.

I posted a comment on a friend’s blog recently about how much I love my wood stove. That one little comment turned into a rabbit hole of memories and musings—and before I knew it, I was sitting there smiling at the flames, thinking: Yeah, it’s a mess. And I love it anyway.

Last year, we thought about getting one of those big fancy outdoor wood furnaces. You know, the kind that keeps all the bark, dust, and chaos out in the yard where it “belongs.” Tempting, sure. But in the end, we stayed loyal to our old wood stove, sitting right there in the heart of the house like it owns the place. And honestly? I’m so glad we did.

I love the smell of the fire the moment I come in from the cold—the smoky sweetness that wraps around you like a hug, instantly making you feel loved and safe. I love the heat that seeps into your bones, not just your skin. You don't just feel warm, you become warm. It’s a whole-body, whole-heart kind of heat.

And there’s something to be said for the little rituals. Tossing on another log when the chill creeps in. Scooting your chair an inch closer—or finding you're an inch too close and realizing you're medium-well on the backside. Cooking stew on the top of the stove like you’re auditioning for a Laura Ingalls reboot. Moving your cup of cocoa just enough to catch the firelight.

I love that the rest of the house stays cooler—it’s like living in climate zones. The great room is “Florida,” the kitchen is “upstate New York,” and the mudroom? That’s “Arctic expedition base camp.” You learn to dress accordingly.

But mostly, I love what it reminds me of.

When I was a little girl, visits to Aunt May’s farm were the highlight of winter (and summer too). She had one of those big black cast iron cookstoves in the kitchen—half appliance, half altar. That thing didn’t just cook food. It performed miracles. She’d have it fired up and ready if she knew I was coming. French toast cooked right on the stovetop, donuts fried in a big pan of lard until the whole kitchen smelled like joy, and bread—oh, the bread—that filled the air with a scent that made you feel that everything was right in the world.

Aunt May wasn’t just an aunt in the usual sense. My mother’s mother passed away when my mom was only nine, and it was Aunt May—her mother’s sister—who stepped in and raised her from then on. So for me, Aunt May felt more like a grandmother. The kind of woman who knew how to hold a family together with pie crusts, wood heat, and quiet, steady love.

Her kitchen wasn’t perfect, and that made it perfect. It was an old farmhouse, the kind that had settled in places, like old houses (and old people) tend to do. Right smack under the middle of the kitchen floor was a great big beam, and as the years wore on and the house sagged gently around it, it formed a hump that ran the length of the room like a little Appalachian ridge.

To most grown-ups, it was probably a nuisance. To me? It was a racetrack. I had a little pedal car and would spend hours pedaling up one side of that hump and coasting down the other like I was Evel Knievel conquering the kitchen range. That wooden hill had more thrill in it than any amusement park ride. I’m sure that hump wasn’t quite as big as I remember, but then, everything is big to a child.

Later, when the farmhouse was sold, the new owners "fixed" the floor and leveled it out. Took that hump right out, like it had been a flaw. But to me, they ruined the house. That hump belonged there. It told a story. It had mileage and memories and the kind of charm you can’t order out of a catalog.

Now, when I sit by our stove with a book in my lap and hot chocolate in hand, I watch the flickering reflections dance across the room and think: Aunt May would approve. Not just of the fire, but of the bumps, the quirks, the things that settle and sag and stay a little uneven—but still warm you just the same.

Sure, heating with wood is a mess. There’s always a trail of sawdust and bits of bark across the floor, and it takes a lot of work—splitting, stacking, hauling, sweeping. But to me, it’s worth every dusty corner and extra load of laundry.

Because sometimes, the old ways don’t need improving. They just need remembering.

P.S. I still miss that pedal car. Not that I could fit in it anymore—but if I could, you’d better believe I’d be tearing up the kitchen hump all over again.